As he read, his forehead crinkled in concentration, satisfied, he tossed the towel onto the sofa before crouching onto his haunches. Flicking open the lid of the cool box, he looked inside. Martin Barlow's disjointed face peered up at him, the huge gash that ran between the eyes leaked blood and brain tissue into the bottom of the plastic container. Snapping the lid closed, he headed for the bedroom to get ready.
'No rest for the wicked,' he mumbled before breaking into a tuneless whistle.
CHAPTER 44
Stokes watched as Medea parked on the drive of a tidy looking semi detached house. Pulling up to the curb, he yanked on the dodgy handbrake but left the engine running, the car was unreliable and the last thing he wanted was to find the engine wouldn't start.
A dark blue Audi bulleted past and the small car rocked in the draft.
Adam frowned as the driver pulled up behind Medea's car; she turned and smiled at the occupant, her black hair cascaded across her shoulders. A moment later, a tall man with short dark hair climbed out and Adam fumed as he dipped his head kissing Medea on the lips. Then he draped an arm around her shoulder as they headed for the door.
Stokes gripped the steering wheel tight, a vein in his forehead throbbed, his throat felt parchment dry.
As the front door closed, he spun the wheel and did a ragged three-point turn before blasting along the narrow street, the anger warped his fevered brain, 'Bitch, bitch, fucking bitch!' he screamed.
'I didn't expect to see you until at least eight.' Medea slid out of her coat and Lasser took it before hanging it over the banister rail.
'You're not the only one.'
'So what happened?'
Lasser followed her into the kitchen, yanking at his tie and popping the top button of his shirt. 'Believe it or not Bannister called it a day.'
Medea stopped and turned. 'You're joking right?'
Lasser made his way over to the kettle and flicked it on. 'No, I mean, normally he would have me searching the woods by candlelight but he didn't seem arsed.'
Medea frowned before lifting two cups from the drainer. 'That doesn't sound like him.'
'I don't think Brewster helped the situation.'
'The reporter?'
'Yeah, Bannister thinks he's in touch with the killer...'
'What!' Medea spun around in shock.
Lasser shrugged. 'It's not unheard of and Brewster is a prize twa... Sorry, I mean he's an arrogant bastard.'
Medea picked the tea towel up and flicked it towards him. 'Well can't you make him tell you what he knows?'
'As much I'd like to beat it out of him it doesn't work that way.'
'So what happens now?'
'Well if Brewster does know more, then we'll know soon enough, I mean he'll want to make as big an impact as possible.'
'So watch this space?'
'Afraid so,' the kettle clicked off and Lasser spooned coffee into the cups. 'I mean, the day wasn't completely wasted at least we managed to piece Philips back together.'
Medea shivered. 'God don't.'
Lasser gave her a crooked grin. 'Sorry, but I thought you liked to know how my day had gone?'
'I do, but not before we eat.'
Pulling the frying pan from the cupboard Lasser brandished it above his head. 'Right, how do you fancy one of my famous omelettes?'
Medea added a splash of milk to her cup. 'Go on then while you're offering.'
Sliding a tray of eggs from the fridge, Lasser lifted two out and spread his arms. 'Step back I need plenty of room for this.'
'Just crack the eggs and stop messing about.'
Lasser began to juggle, tossing the eggs high into the air, his tongue poking out in concentration. When one dropped to the floor with a splat, he threw Medea a sheepish look.
'Oops.'
Reaching for the kitchen roll, she tossed it over. 'Idiot,' she said with a smile. Catching it, Lasser crouched down to clean up the mess.
'Heaven save me from the modern man,' Medea sighed as she cracked a fresh egg into the bowl.
CHAPTER 45
Michael Brewster was starting to feel nervous. It had nothing to do with being dragged down to the police station. In fact, it had been the highlight of his day watching that arrogant prick, Bannister squirm in his seat.
No, the nerves came from not having heard from the man all day. He'd felt sure he would have been in touch, after all he'd done all that had been asked of him. The national's were now in on the act, he'd spoken to Shane Lewis earlier and the editor had been on cloud nine.
According to him, sales of the paper had gone through the roof and soon the media would descend on the town en-masse.
Brewster had come off the phone, his brain buzzing with excitement. Cracking open a bottle of expensive wine he'd toasted himself before downing two glasses, sprawled on the sofa his feet perched on the coffee table, Brewster had felt elated.
Checking his watch, he chewed at his bottom lip, suddenly a terrifying thought ploughed through his brain, what if the man decided he wasn't up to the task?
Brewster shuddered at the thought, what if he was in contact with another reporter?
Springing up from his seat, he stormed over to the window trying to quell the sudden feeling of panic. Throwing open the window, he stuck his head through the gap and sucked in a huge lungful of cool air.
Lifting his gaze, he looked over the town, in the distance he could see the traffic moving steadily along Poolstock Lane, headlights flashed and the occasional horn-blast split the air.
He would be in touch; it was inconceivable to think otherwise, after all, there was no one else who knew the town as he did. Brewster nodded, that made sense, the man had said as much on the phone.
Slamming the window closed he felt the tension ease a little, he had to be patient, besides, what choice did he have.
What if the coppers had somehow caught the killer, the voice inside spoke in sly tones.
Brewster felt the colour drain from his face; surely fate wouldn't cheat him like that. Offering him a way out of this cesspit only to toss him back in at the last minute, Brewster swiped a hand across his tacky brow and sniffed, he could almost smell the shit.
Turning, he stormed across the room, he needed another drink. When he saw the slip of paper poking beneath the door he stopped in his tracks. All the nerves and anxiety disappeared, replaced by a ball-shrinking sense of fear. Taking a hurried step back, he looked around the room as if he expected to find an axe-wielding maniac hiding behind the sofa.
Licking his lips, Brewster tried to take a step forward and found that his legs refused to move.
'Come on, come on,' he gasped and then he was juddering forward like a broken clockwork toy.
Bending, he picked the paper up and unfolded it, as he began to read the fear fell away, replaced by a wave of euphoria.
'Yes!' Raising a clenched fist, he punched the air, once, twice, before doing a little jig of joy on the laminate flooring.
CHAPTER 46
Stumpy Clark hid in the bushes and waited, his pockets stuffed with toilet roll, his erection growing. Another half an hour and they would start to arrive, Stumpy sniffed, dogging wasn't to everyone's taste, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Besides, it was nice and dark amongst the laurel bushes and the weather was surprisingly warm. Reaching down, he pulled his member free and began to stroke it slowly back and forth. After thirty seconds, he frowned before pulling the pill from his pocket and popping it into his mouth. Stumpy grimaced at the taste and tried to swallow but the tablet became lodged in his throat. Craning his neck skyward, he tried again and felt the pill slip a little further down his gullet.
'Bugger,' he hissed before yanking out a small bottle of water from inside his jacket, snapping back the lid he took a gulp, sighing when he felt the pill vanish.
The moon was rising, bathing the park in a silver wash of light. Stumpy frowned, he didn't want it to grow too light, it would keep people away. In the distance, he could see the swings, their skel
etal frames standing out in profile, the bandstand looking like a garish metal umbrella.
When he saw the dark shape moving along the path, he licked his lips and moved further back into the bushes, the excitement building. This was always the worst part, the not knowing, the man could simply be taking a short cut through the park heading to the town centre for a night of merriment. If that were the case then it would be disappointing, Stumpy could feel the tablet beginning to take effect his cock growing in the confines of his jeans.
Or, it could be a copper, the thought made him wince, though they rarely came to the park especially at the weekend, the police were normally too busy trying to keep the town centre under control. Stumpy relaxed a little and waited, when he saw the shadow stride by he held his breath and then frowned; the man was carrying something in his right hand.
He listened to the sound of the heavy footfalls receding, for a moment the thought of sexual gratification vanished. Moving forward he peeped out of the undergrowth, peering along the path he could see the man striding along, a box swinging from his right hand.
As he reached the statue, he stopped and placed the box on the floor. Stumpy moved forward a few feet and came to a halt.
Moving to the left, he began to tiptoe his way along the path, making sure he kept close to the bushes. When he was twenty feet away, Stumpy stopped and leant forward dipping his head beneath the low-slung branches.
The man held something in his right hand but the gloom made it impossible to see clearly what it was. Then the figure moved forward, the statue was of a local dignitary, some long dead councillor that Stumpy had never heard of.
Stepping back the man picked up the box and tossed it into the bushes before turning and walking away.
Stumpy winced and reached down the front of his trousers rearranging his straining cock, before skulking forward.
When the figure in front stopped and turned, Clark froze, hugged in tight to the bushes he waited, his heart suddenly slamming inside his pigeon chest.
'Consider it a gift!' The voice drifted out of the darkness.
Clark let his breath whisper out through dried out lips; he could feel the sweat under his armpits making him shudder with a sudden chill. The seconds ticked by and he remained by the side of the path, nerves jittering.
'Wanna mess around?'
Stumpy almost screamed in fright.
The man standing behind him had his head down, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jacket.
'What?'
'Blow job, wank maybe?'
'I...'
'Come on, I've seen you here before.'
'Did you see that man?'
The man took a step back. 'What man?'
Stumpy looked back along the empty path. 'You must have seen him; he left something on the statue.'
'What are you on about?'
'I...'
'Look, do you want to mess around or not?'
'Give me a minute,' Stumpy began to move along the path.
'Hang on!'
Clark stopped and held up a hand. 'Half a minute and I'll be right back.'
'But...'
'I'll even swallow if you like?' Stumpy saw a flash of teeth.
'You're on pal, I'll wait here,' the man moved to the side and disappeared into the trees.
Stumpy turned and jogged along the path, desperate to see what the man had left behind but even more desperate to get back to the bushes for some fun.
At first he wasn't sure what he was looking at, it looked like a small bundle of wet washing propped on the knees of the bronze seated statue.
Stumpy took a hesitant step forward, reached out a hand and then stopped as his brain rearranged the bundle, it was like looking at one those magic pictures that would suddenly leap into stark relief.
Clark’s hand fell to his side; his mouth stretched open, the scream when it eventually came was shrill, it rose in pitch, unravelling into the night. The man in the bushes leapt out; he could see Stumpy in the distance sounding like a small animal ensnared in a vicious trap.
Without hesitation, he turned and ran.
All thoughts of fun in the bushes vanished from Stumpy Clark’s head, his scream continued to fill the air, his chemically swollen member strained at the confines of his jeans.
He started to run, wobbling from side to side as his legs threatened to give way.
Reaching the park gates, he almost fainted with fright as he collided with the police officer who was coming to see what the racket was all about.
It took Stumpy over half a minute to put his words into some kind of coherent sentence.
Dipping his head, PC Steve Black pressed the two way strapped to his shoulder.
Half an hour later, bedlam hit.
CHAPTER 47
Lasser was trapped in a nightmare, looking down at the crumpled form of Cathy Harper as she lay slumped against the garden shed, her throat red and open and pulsating with dark blood.
When she turned to look up at him, he screamed.
'Lasser wake up!'
When he opened his eyes it was to find Medea peering down at him a frown of concern on her face, her eyes alight with worry.
'Jesus,' he mumbled, as the dream fell away.
'It's Alan.'
Lasser blinked and tried to lick his lips but his tongue felt like a cut of meat that had been left to dry in the desert sun. 'What?' he managed to croak.
Medea lifted the phone. 'He wants you.'
Pushing himself against the headboard, he tried to think but his brain felt stupefied. 'Bannister?'
Medea thrust the phone towards him. 'He says it's urgent.'
Lasser took the phone and rubbed at his eyes. 'Hello.'
'Lasser get dressed, Mesnes Park now!'
'But...'
'The bastard's left someone's head stuck on the statue.'
Lasser shook his head trying to dispel the last vestiges of the nightmare, Medea watched him closely.
'Lasser are you still there?'
'Yeah, yeah I'm still here.'
'Well get off the bloody phone man and get your skates on!'
Lasser wasn't sure if he mumbled a response, though it didn't really matter, Bannister had hung up.
'Are you ok?' Medea reached out and took hold of his hand.
'Yeah, I'm just still half asleep that's all.'
Raising an eyebrow, Medea slid from the bed. 'You get ready; I'll make you a quick drink before you go.'
Lasser glanced bleary eyed at the bedside clock and groaned. 'Jesus, we've only been in bed an hour.'
Sliding into her dressing gown, Medea turned to face him. 'You were having another nightmare?'
'I guess.'
'About what happened to Cathy?'
Lasser thought about lying though in the end he simply nodded. 'Afraid so.'
Fastening her belt, she smiled in sympathy. 'I'll make that drink,' she said as she headed for the door.
He watched her go before swinging his feet to the floor. Bannister's words seeped slowly into his head. A minute later, he was hustling down the stairs, Medea waiting at the bottom with a steaming coffee cup in her hand.
'Sorry Med, no time.'
'Rubbish,' she thrust the cup towards his chest.
Lasser took a mouthful and sighed. 'I'll get back as quick as I can.'
She took the cup before taking a sip herself. 'Did I hear right, something about a head left in the park?'
'That's what the man said.'
Medea shivered. 'Take care out there.'
Smiling, he planted a kiss on her lips. 'I always take care.'
'Liar,' she said and watched as he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. 'Don't forget I'll be late tonight, it's parents evening at the school.'
Struggling into the coat, Lasser grabbed the handle and then turned. 'No problem, see you later.'
Medea stood at the door and watched as he climbed into the car, she saw him grin and wave at her before reversing down the short drive, ten
seconds later, he was gone.
CHAPTER 48
Despite having placed officers at both sets of gates that led into the park, a few determined individuals had still managed to scramble over the wall and make their way through the trees; Bannister spotted a couple popping out of the bushes.
'Smith, grab those two bastards and stick them in the back of the van.'
PC Smith set of in pursuit, as soon as the figures saw him storming along the path they turned and bolted back beneath the trees. 'Wait right where you are!' Smith hollered.
'Fat chance,' Bannister grumbled before turning back and shining his torch at the statue, he kept the beam locked onto the head for a few seconds before flicking the light to the left.
When he heard the sound of running feet, he turned to find Lasser dashing towards him.
'How come every time I ring you're in bed?'
Lasser skidded to halt. 'Just trying to catch up on some zeds that's all.'
'Jesus Christ man, you've just come back off your holidays.'
'Yeah so what?'
Bannister opened his mouth though instead of firing back a barbed retort, he simply sighed. 'So what do you make of this, sergeant?'
He swept the light up until it landed full on the severed head, he allowed himself a tight smile as Lasser gasped.
'Wide awake now sergeant?' Bannister said with a nasty grin.
Lasser moved forward, pulling his own light out, he turned it on before aiming it at the gruesome sight.
'Bloody hell, Lasser I would have thought one torch was enough.'
'Martin Barlow.'
This time Bannister was the one doing the gasping. 'The dodgy dentist?'
'Yeah, and I think it'll take more than a filling to fix that smile?'
Bannister grunted in annoyance. 'Are you sure it's him?'
'I saw him two days ago, admittedly, his eyes were facing forward rather than at right angles, but it's him alright.'
'You know sergeant, I'm all for gallows humour, but sometimes you take things too far.'
Lasser looked at him nonplussed. 'I was only saying...'
More Equal Than Others. The DS Lasser series. Volume five: Robin Roughley Page 11
