A Need To Kill (DI Matt Barnes)

by Michael Kerr

  Embracing, standing amid the discarded clothes, Beth thought that they might be in a place apart from the rest of creation. All that existed was the blackness and the touch of Matt’s body.

  Nothing infringed upon their thoughts and actions for over an hour.

  “That was something else,” Matt said, sitting up, breathing heavily.

  Beth grinned. “Yeah. How will we ever top that?”

  “I’ll settle for coming close. I don’t think I even knew what century I was in for a while. There was nothing but you and me, and sensations that I didn’t think could exist.”

  “That’s how I felt, Matt. Every time we make love it gets better.”

  “Practise makes perfect.”

  “Who said that?”

  “I just did.”

  Beth laughed. “You up for any more practise tonight?”

  “You mean this morning?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Yeah, but let’s go to bed for round two. This floor isn’t as user-friendly as the mattress.”

  Hand-in-hand they padded through to the kitchen, shared a tumbler of iced water, then went up to the bedroom to try to recapture the nerve-shredding pleasure that they had enjoyed in the darkened lounge.

  Pete met Matt at the door to the squad room.

  “Brenda Downey had a sister, boss.”

  “Had, as in past tense, meaning she’s dead?”

  “No. I mean, well, we know that Brenda is dead, but her sister is still alive.”

  “And by the smug look on your face, I take it you’ve got an address?”

  “Of course. I’m a detective, aren’t I? That’s what I do, detect.”

  “Okay, Columbo. Share.”

  “Marjory Walters, née Downey. She’s married to the property tycoon, Vincent Walters. They live out at Maidenhead.”

  “Give her a bell, Pete. We need to talk to the lady. She might be able to tell us something we don’t know about her crazy nephew.”

  “I already phoned her, boss. A maid answered. When I asked if Mrs. Walters was in, she said yes, but wanted to know who was calling. I decided not to tell her. I got the feeling that we’d get stonewalled if we tried to make an appointment. Thought it would be better if we just turned up on the doorstep.”

  “I’ll drive,” Matt said, turning and heading back to the lift. “Give me a potted history of the old bird on the way. What else do we know?”

  “The team are chasing down the guy who sold Downey the van. And just before you arrived we got confirmation that there were no human remains at Bertram Street. What the techies did find was a pair of handcuffs in the loft. One cuff was fastened to a chain, and the other was open. They’ll check for Julie Spencer’s DNA. Looks as though he took her with him.”

  The lift door juddered open. Matt stepped inside and hit the button for the basement level car park. Couldn’t work out why Downey would take Julie with him. She would just be excess baggage to slow him down.

  “How do you figure it, Pete?”

  “Who knows what greases his wheels, boss? He might feel safer from us with a hostage. Or she might be happy to go along with him. By all accounts, Julie was more than a little fond of spreading them. She has the reputation of being a bike. She worked long hours for poor pay, and hadn’t got much going for her. She wasn’t into any meaningful relationship that we know of, and thought that a good night out was getting pissed and laid.”

  “She could be playing him, Pete. Trying every trick in the book to keep on his good side, if he has one. She may have more about her than her lifestyle suggests. Let’s work on the theory that she is a prisoner. That if she could escape, she would.”

  As Matt drove west, out through Chiswick to pick up the M4, Pete briefed him on Marjory Walters.

  “I checked her out, boss. As Marjory Downey she had a couple of dozen convictions for soliciting, way back in the early eighties. Unlike her sister, she moved on. Opened up a dating agency, and then a couple of massage parlours. We don’t know where she met Walters, but I’d be surprised if he knows about her past. That’s about it. She lives in a pile like Highgrove these days, gets chauffeured about in a stretch limo, and has pads in the south of France and West Palm Beach.”

  Matt parked on the expanse of gravel drive that fronted the large Georgian residence.

  The maid who opened the door to them was a dowdy specimen, with a thick waist and a doughy face. Not a pretty sight. One of her pale, hooded eyes drifted disconcertingly to the right. Matt guessed that Marjory must do the hiring and firing of domestic staff, and was not about to have cutesy young blondes with hourglass figures running around the place. With her history, she knew that the average man was not above being swayed, especially if some crumpet was on tap, living in servants’ quarters at the top of the house.

  Matt showed the maid his ID. “We’re here to see Mrs. Walters.”

  “Wait here, please,” she said and closed the door on them.

  “Jeez, boss, I don’t like the look of yours,” Pete quipped.

  After a two minute wait the door opened again.

  “Yes, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” A tall redhead said, looking Matt and Pete up and down as if they were local villagers calling to see if she might condescend to donate a few unwanted items of clothing to the church hall jumble sale.

  Matt looked beyond the haughty expression. And though she looked younger, he estimated the woman to be in her mid-sixties. Her face looked a little too smooth and taut. She would no doubt have telltale scars around her ears. A scalpel had robbed her of the little crinkles, wrinkles and laughter lines that gave a mature face character. But the backs of her hands conspired against her; the network of rope-like veins bulged under thinning, tired skin that had seen too much sun and was blemished with myriad liver spots. And more important and pertinent, her sharp, green eyes avoided contact with his. She was ill at ease, in the way that a thousand suspects with guilt to hide had been when sat facing him across the table in an interview room.

  “You could ask us in, and maybe get the maid to fix us coffee,” Matt said, giving her a flash of his white, even teeth.

  “I might just do that, Inspector, if you first tell me why you are here.”

  “It’s about Lucas, Mrs. Walters. We need to know everything about him that you can tell us.”

  Marjory’s brow would have creased like crepe paper, had it not been impossible for her to frown, thanks to the overindulgence of Botox injections that had transformed it to a glassy plane.

  “Lucas who?” Marjory managed to say.

  “The Lucas who is your nephew, Mrs. Walters,” Matt said. “Lucas Downey. Remember him?”

  She stood aside, waited until they had entered and then closed the door.

  “In here,” Marjory said, striding across the large hall to open a door and usher them into a huge reception room.

  Matt was impressed. Someone had good taste to go with serious money. The decor and soft furnishings were quietly regal, and the marble fireplace was the length of the lounge in his maisonette. He was not envious, but could see Beth and himself living here; maybe when he won the lotto, or retired and opened up a private security firm that catered to wealthy punters who quite rightly assumed that they were potential targets. Dream on.

  “Please, sit down,” Marjory said. “I’ll arrange for refreshment.” She walked over to the fireplace and tugged on a silk sash.

  Neither Matt nor Pete could believe it. Pete imagined that a bell on the wall of a below stairs kitchen had tinkled, summoning a maid. He was right.

  Matt was reminded of the old TV series: Upstairs, Downstairs.

  Marjory was feeling very anxious. Unsettled and as skittish as one of the thoroughbred horses that she owned. Her past was catching up with her, thanks to her late sister’s weird and dangerous son.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The same maid that had answered the door to them knocked once and entered. She simultaneously looked at Marjory with one eye, and somewhere ove
r Pete’s shoulder with the other.

  “A pot of coffee and an iced tea, Ethel,” Marjory instructed.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the dumpy servant said, and was gone before anything more might be asked of her.

  Marjory fidgeted with her hands, removed a cigarette from an onyx box – that was the same shade of green as her eyes – and lit it from a large, matching table lighter.

  As if an afterthought, she said, “Would you care for one?”

  They both declined, though Matt wanted to say yes. Wanted to give way to the little voice that said, ‘fuck the damage to my health, the expense, and the fact that I know smoking is a mug’s game. I want a bloody cigarette’. He could almost taste that unique and slightly toasted flavour of tobacco; knew that inhaling the smoke would calm the persistent craving and nullify the near desperation that trying to quit was tormenting him with.

  Matt was in no hurry to question the woman. They waited in an uncomfortable silence that was only broken by a series of high-pitched screeches that made Matt and Pete look to Marjory for explanation.

  “Peacocks,” she said. “So princely and delightful to look at. A pity that they can be so raucous.”

  The coffee arrived. Matt poured a cup for Pete, and then himself. Took a sip without adding cream or sugar from the jug and bowl that was part of the same set as the bone china pot.

  “Lucas is a serial killer,” Matt said with no further preamble. “Where is he?”

  A second’s pause. “W...What? How the hell should I know?”

  “You are his only surviving relative, that we can trace,” Matt said. “And he’s on the run and needs somewhere to lie low.”

  Marjory stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray that was not surprisingly carved from the same hue of onyx as the box and lighter.

  “I have not seen Lucas for over ten years,” she said. “You obviously know something of my background, and will appreciate that I would rather leave it where it belongs, in the past. That also pertains to my late sister’s son. He was...unbalanced. It may not have been his fault, but he was a very strange and mixed-up individual.”

  “You said it might not have been his fault, Mrs. Walters. What do you mean by that? Be specific, please,” Matt pushed. “I have to know everything that you do about him.”

  “I don’t think I have anything further to add,” Marjory said in a clipped tone of voice. “I would appreciate your leaving my house.”

  “Perhaps we should talk to your husband,” Matt said, gambling that contact with her husband would be the last thing she would want to happen.

  “Vincent has no knowledge of Lucas’s existence, Detective Inspector.”

  “I’m sure that’s the case. I would also be surprised if he knows that you even had a sister. Or that, like Brenda, you made a living by selling your dubious favours to strangers.”

  Rage twisted Marjory’s face. “You bastard! I’ve put a lot of years between what I did then and who I am now. I got out of that life. You have no right to bring it up.”

  Matt shrugged. “So talk to us, Marjory. Help us find Lucas. He tortures, mutilates and kills young women. Finding and stopping him are more important to me than your anonymity.”

  With the facade of respectability shattered, Marjory sank back into her chair and looked down at her feet. Hands restless in her lap, she fought for some composure and eventually raised her head and began talking in a quiet monotone. “She should have had him terminated. Christ, it wasn’t as if she didn’t have access to an abortionist. I think she liked the idea of being a mother. But he was in the way. Punters don’t want to hear a screaming kid in the next room. Brenda used to crush up half a sleeping pill in his bottle to make sure he didn’t bawl. Sometimes she would lose her temper and hurt the poor little bugger. Burned him with cigarettes, and threw him about like a rag doll. And when she got together with that pig, Leroy, it got worse. They were both crackheads; not fit to keep a fucking goldfish, never mind a child. They made Lucas into what he is. Used to lock him in the coal cellar for hours at a time, and sometimes forgot about him and left him in the cold and dark overnight.”

  “And then Leroy came home one night and murdered Brenda. Right?” Matt said.

  “I very much doubt that, Inspector. If you knew Lucas, then you would have no hesitation in believing that he cut Brenda’s throat. He became consumed with hate. I once called round and saw him kicking a stray pup to death in the back yard. He was about eight at the time, and giggled as the pup screamed and writhed about. Brenda and Leroy had made the boy into a monster. He only knew pain and suffering.”

  “Has he contacted you, Marjory?”

  “No. And he won’t. He doesn’t know my married name, or where I live.”

  “Be aware that he is very cunning and inventive. If he shows up or telephones you, get in touch with us immediately,” Matt said, taking a card from his wallet and jotting his mobile number on the back.

  “I’ll do that,” Marjory said, taking the card. “Can I rely on your discretion, Inspector?”

  Matt gave her an ironic smile. “It’s a two-way street, love. If you scratch our backs...”

  “I have absolutely no reason to harbour or protect Lucas. He is a part of my past that I wish was as dead as Brenda. What do you want me to say to him, in the unlikely event of him finding and contacting me?”

  “Act surprised and wary. Grudgingly let him talk you into doing whatever he wants, and then give me a call. We can take it from there.”

  Julie cringed back, drew her knees up and covered her face with her hands, peeking out and up through gaps between her fingers. Lucas had thrown the table back and was standing over her with a maniacal grin on his face.

  “Thought you’d leave the party early, eh?” Lucas said. “Just when it’s starting to warm up.”

  “I...I―”

  “Shut up. You disappoint me. I’ve treated you well, and to repay me you try to run away. What were you going to do, grass me up to the police?”

  “I was scared, Lucas. I thought you were going to kill me.”

  He lashed out. Hit her hard across the mouth with the back of his hand.

  “You thought right, smarty-pants. I’m going to soak you with this petrol and set light to you.”

  Julie’s head jerked sideways. She felt blood spurt from her split top lip, and tears streamed down her cheeks as she fell back.

  Fuck him! I’m not going to just lie here and let him do it, she thought as fury swelled through her to push out the fear and spur her into action. She sprang to her feet screaming incoherently, throwing herself at him, using her hands as claws to try and blind him with her nails.

  Lucas dropped the can and put his hands up instinctively to protect his face. She had taken him completely by surprise; thudded into him and knocked him off balance. He fell hard, and she was all over him like an army of ants; sitting on him, pounding him with her fists and spitting blood as she called him a sick fuck and a murdering bastard.

  It was turning him on, but he didn’t have the time to fool around like this. He grasped one of her flailing arms by the wrist and savagely twisted it back.

  Julie cried out at the sudden pain. She was thrown sideways and cracked the back of her head on the unyielding vinyl that covered the cement floor. For a moment she thought that she would pass out, and when her head cleared, he was on top of her, gripping her throat and squeezing. The pressure was relentless and paralysing. Her hands were free, and yet she could not move them. Nor could she raise her legs to drive her knees into his back. This was it, her moment to die. She felt a final expanding explosion of panic run amok in her mind, and experienced the coldness of what she thought was the edge of the abyss. She was about to know what death was; to suffer it firsthand.

  He left her sprawled out and unconscious. Ran up the stairs and began to pour the petrol, dousing the bed and carpet in his room, and then the landing and stairs as he made his way back down to the studio.

  He shook her until she stirred. “Can
you hear me, Julie?”

  She sucked in a noisy breath through a now bruised windpipe. Tried to talk, but couldn’t. Her throat felt mashed.

  “Do you want to live?” Lucas said. “Nod your head if you want to be given another chance.”

  His voice seemed so distant. She could only just hear the words indistinctly through ears that were pounding with her heartbeat.

  She nodded. Started crying again. Of course she wanted to live: would now sell her soul to the Devil to buy more time. And to her, Lucas was the Devil.

  “Okay. We need to get a move on. Time to get the hell away from here. I want you to know that you are the only person that I have ever given a second chance to. One more act of betrayal, and it will be over. You get to die hard. Am I making myself perfectly, absolutely crystal fucking clear?”

  She nodded again.

  “Good girl. I’ve got a new set of wheels out back. I’m going to lock you in the boot until we are safely out of the area. So no noise or stupid moves.”

  She just kept nodding. She would agree to anything and everything. Being on the very brink of nonexistence had taken all the fight out of her. She would obey him and do whatever it took to stay alive.

  He led her out through the kitchen, supporting her with an arm round her waist bearing most of her weight. Her legs kept buckling.

  He opened the boot, scooped her up and placed her in it. Shut the lid and went back into the house to light the balled-up pages of a newspaper and toss the flaming missile into the primed hallway, running for the door as with a loud whump flames leapt to life and greedily raced along the trails of petrol. Fire enthralled him. He wished he could stay, to watch and listen as it devoured all that it touched.

  He climbed into the Volvo and drove away. It was a shame about Ralph. He had always enjoyed hearing the ex-stuntman’s tales of movie land and of the actors and actresses who – in the main –were allegedly not as attractive, glamorous or intelligent in reality as their roles conveyed. Take away their scripts, makeup, and the circus that attended them, and they were just shallow, full of shit nothings, being paid millions to pursue fame and feed frail egos.