BURN, BABY, BURN

by Jake Barton

  "Nip back to the office and fetch my old notebooks. They’re on the table by the door. Go back at least fifteen years. Bring the lot. Then you can run me up to Wallasey in that flash new car. I’ll see if Celine’s friend knows anything. After that, I want you back at the office." He was ready for the mutinous glare Donna gave him and held up a hand as she started to protest. "There’ll be time enough for you to be involved in this case. I need someone to keep up with the other cases, or I could always leave you here to assist Mister Roper?"

  Donna shook her head. Dexter smiled; he knew she’d rather streak naked through the centre of Liverpool than spend a whole afternoon with Roper. Even Martha’s company was better than that. "Off you go then," he barked before turning and disappearing through the door.

  Donna hung around for a moment or two, brooding on the unfairness of her situation, her glum expression like an unwelcome black cloud. Dexter had outmanoeuvred her as usual. This was supposed to have been her case. God, he was such a clever bastard, although sometimes she’d appreciate a bit less stick and a bit more carrot. But he was the expert in these sorts of cases, and he had given her credit for her hunch. Maybe she still had an opportunity to prove herself. Donna spied a curtain move in one of the windows looking out onto the street, Roper’s beady eyes peered through the gap, Donna took the hint and walked over to the rental car.

  *****

  Heavy cloud cover prevented even the faintest glimpse of the sun, with scarcely any light penetrating the tiny windows of the cabin. Marcus lay naked on his mattress, the gloom as warm and comfortable as an Amish quilt. He would check on the girl shortly. He liked to watch her as she slept, when she had no knowledge of his presence.

  He rose from the mattress and performed his routine of stretching exercises, careful to remain silent.

  Padding noiselessly across the wooden floor he stood in the open doorway, pleased the sleeping figure on the bed remained undisturbed. Exultation rose in his chest, building inside him until he thought he would cry out. He gorged his senses on the pure joy of expectation, as sweet as sugar on whipped cream.

  To the casual observer, none of this would be evident. Every emotion was concealed under the cloak of his rigid self-control. Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream, ensuring optimum readiness, in the same way primitive man prepared to face the dangers of the hunt. This was a time to savour. He walked among them and they knew nothing of his power.

  He’d been away for several hours, checking and rechecking, never begrudging the endless planning. A minor distraction had been dealt with, and would pose no further problem. On returning to his car, he’d been approached by a middle-aged woman who’d asked him to help her as she’d inadvertently locked her keys inside her car. It would have required only a few moments of his time to gain admittance to the vehicle, but this act of kindness would have been as likely a reason for the woman to remember him, as would an outright refusal to help. Better by far to take a pro-active approach and resolve the situation in a manner that would involve no element of risk.

  He invited the woman to go with him to a local garage where a replacement key could be obtained and she’d accepted his offer gratefully, even flirting with him as she hiked up her skirt to clamber into the passenger seat. No one else was around and he’d already checked for the presence of any closed-circuit camera systems.

  When safely away from the area he’d struck the woman over the head with a metal torch, and bundled her unconscious figure down into the floor-well then driven to an isolated area of the shoreline.

  Marcus had waited for her to regain consciousness, and then collected the item he needed from his car boot and disposed of her in the manner that appealed most to him that day. His hand rose and fell with the impersonal regularity of a jackhammer, each blow precisely the same, eyes fixed on those of his victim. He felt the exact moment her skull fractured, baring white teeth in anticipation. Releasing his tenuous grasp on the steel shaft of the hammer, now slick with her blood, and breathing deeply he probed the bloody wreckage of her scalp with his delicate fingers, feeling for the edges of the crack which he knew to be there.

  Digging his fingernails into each side, he strained to pull the slender fissure apart. She moaned once in disbelief at the agony she felt, and then his hands were inside her skull. He removed the tips of his fingers, raised them to his mouth and sucked deeply. This was what he craved, these brief moments of intense pleasure. The woman’s body, weighed down with stones, was now at the bottom of the lake. Among her effects had been an organ donor’s card and an envelope bearing the imprimatur of a prestigious solicitors’ practice containing a recently amended last will and testament in which she’d renounced a previous generous payment to her son. Marcus had considered sending this document anonymously to the son, but any pleasure this act would afford was counterbalanced by his urgent need to carry out his main plan.

  In complete silence, he moved to the side of the bed. This girl was the key to his destiny. She had no knowledge of her importance, too wrapped up in her own selfish fear. He despised her weakness.

  She went with him willingly, of her own free will, desperate to taste the promised fruits he offered. Now she would be aware of the price she had to pay.

  He felt nothing for her, not a trace of regret for what she would have to suffer. Betrayed by the weakness of her flesh she deserved all that was coming to her.

  ~ Chapter 5 ~

  On their way to New Brighton, Dexter confided how he’d been only too familiar with the Rake Lane area and its numerous public houses after the breakdown of his marriage. Donna didn’t want to know, but he told her anyway.

  "It’s the loneliness that gets you in the end. The only part of the job she never got used to." Dexter spoke of his ex-wife.

  Donna thought she knew what had brought on this True Confessions crap. Dexter’s daughter, his only child, would be the same age as Celine Dobson. She never contacted him, and Donna knew how much that must hurt.

  "Isn’t that part of the job? Long hours, on call any hour of the day or night?"

  Dexter nodded. "Yeah, but some people never get used to it. Parts of the job are worse than others. Even I never got used to some of them."

  Donna blinked in surprise; she’d always assumed a man like Dexter was born to the life of a working copper and had loved every minute of his work.

  "It’s not just the family waiting in an empty house," Dexter went on. "Being a cop can be bloody lonely. You learn to rely on the people you work with, out of necessity; they’re your only friends. All my working life, I was lied to on a daily basis, spat at, threatened and abused so often I hardly noticed after a while. Every time I parked my car, I half expected it to be vandalised when I got back. It’s not a good feeling, knowing that pimps and drug dealers can walk around freely while I had to watch my back. And as for expecting any gratitude from the public for doing my job, that’s a bloody joke if ever I heard one."

  They parked up near the pub Dexter indicated and stood outside, looking up at the sign swinging on its mountings. Above, a single white cloud painted a broad-brush stroke across an otherwise clear blue sky, but a strong breeze brought an accompanying chill. The wind rustled the leaves clinging tenaciously to the branches of a single tree, planted at the end of the faded Victorian terrace. The creaking pub sign was just about all that had survived the attentions of the renovators. Dexter pursed his lips, presumably at some half-forgotten memory, then pushed open the doors and they went inside.

  The pub had been gentrified by the addition of hunting prints on the walls and round marble topped tables scattered in haphazard fashion across the stain resistant carpet. Artificial flowers in bark-filled tubs framed the entrance doors. Discreet up lighters, flush to the walls provided a tasteful illumination.

  The back room was original, and it was here that the domino and cribbage devotees were installed. Leathery faces, their skin etched with deep furrows, looked up from the battered mahogany table at their entrance then disregarded the
new arrivals, leaning back in their chairs with the practised ease of familiarity.

  Dexter led the way through an oak door with gleaming brass handles to the lounge. An old man with bushy cotton-wool eyebrows and a matching moustache, the inverted crescent tinged with the stains of a habitual smoker, sat nursing his drink at the far end of the bar, but the main room was otherwise deserted.

  The old boy was dressed as if destined to end the day atop a bonfire as a representation of Guy Fawkes – shiny dark suit with at least one button missing and lapels turned up like old lettuce leaves, a creased lilac-coloured shirt with an improbably wide tie, off-white towelling socks and grey slip-on shoes.

  Donna smiled at him and, after a few moments delay, he crinkled his face in a parody of a smile. Rheumy eyes, like those of a newborn child, slow to focus settled back into a vague fixed stare. His movements were slow and un-coordinated, a vivid demonstration of the manner in which motor skills, slowly developed in childhood, gradually faded away at the opposite end of the age scale.

  Dexter walked up to the bar and rested his elbow like the serious drinker he used to be. Donna stood behind him, feeling and looking like a lost soul. The blonde behind the bar had one of those faces that told the world she knew the score, thank you very much, and wouldn’t particularly appreciate advice from anyone else. High pronounced cheekbones and a generous mouth were framed by strikingly fair hair that may even have been natural. Nordic was the word that came to Donna’s mind, echoes of generations of Scandinavian ice-maidens. When she spoke, however, her origins were much closer to home.

  "God, look what the cat dragged in. What brings you out slumming, Dexter, or shouldn’t I ask?"

  "How’s the world treating you, Maggie?"

  "Why complain? Never did me a blind bit of good." The evident good humour in her voice belied the cynicism of her words. Dexter nodded and offered a wan smile. No more than the equivalent of a 40-watt bulb, thought Donna, but he made no further attempt at conversation. Apparently oblivious to Donna’s presence, the woman looked at Dexter’s face in profile and shrugged. She reached for a tall glass and polished it assiduously, apparently paying him no more attention.

  "I’m off the job, Maggie." Dexter’s voice was soft, but heard easily enough.

  "Figures," she said, leaning towards him. "It’s been a while since I saw your ugly mug."

  "I need a favour." Maggie looked at him sharply. Donna sussed that the Dexter this woman had known previously wasn’t accustomed to asking favours.

  "Come in the back," she said, raising the hinged section of the bar counter and beckoning them to follow her.

  "Jackie," Maggie called to the old man at the other end of the bar. "Whistle if you want a refill, I’m just slipping out back for a minute." The old man half raised a languid arm in acknowledgement.

  Maggie led the way up a set of narrow stairs into a small kitchen and pointed to two cheap vinyl covered chairs on one side of a small Formica-topped table. Donna sat down, resting an elbow on the table. Dexter stood motionless in the doorway, leaning into the angle of the wall and the door, arms folded over his chest, his face revealing nothing. Maggie tapped the chair again and he nodded briefly and sat down.

  "I don’t usually do lunchtimes," Maggie said. "Two or three regulars as a rule, hardly worthwhile opening the doors, but I shouldn’t complain. A few extra quid helps out with the bills." Dexter made no reply, staring into space apparently lost in thought.

  "I’ll make us a coffee," Maggie said, over her shoulder, filling the kettle over the small sink. Dexter still didn’t speak. Maggie busied herself with spooning coffee into three beakers, adding milk to them all without asking for their preferences.

  "Here you go," she said, passing the steaming mugs over the table and sitting down opposite Dexter with a small sigh of satisfaction. Sipping her coffee she watched Dexter through the steam rising from the beaker. Donna could tell she would make no attempt to start a conversation.

  "It’s about Celine, Lisa’s friend," Dexter said, at last, his voice muffled by the proximity of his coffee mug. He’d already told Donna that no mention would be made of abduction. Safer that way, he’d said. Maggie said nothing, waiting him out.

  She’s a cool one, thought Donna, gives nothing away.

  Dexter took a small sip of coffee, grimacing at the taste. "No sugar," he said mildly, taking a further sip from the beaker.

  The coffee was pretty grim, concurred Donna but she drank it anyway. She wasn’t fussy. Maggie just shrugged, sipping her own coffee and watching Dexter’s face carefully.

  "Celine? Celine Dobson, I suppose. You were saying?"

  Dexter frowned. "She’s gone missing. I need to talk to Lisa. See if Celine told her anything."

  "Is this personal? You involved?"

  He shook his head. "Just a job." He reached in a pocket for a business card and passed it to Maggie.

  She glanced down, reading the card, lips pursed, then handed it back. "What about you, love?" she asked Donna. "You with the same firm?"

  Donna nodded, reaching for her own card, but Maggie held up her hand. "No need," she said, "I’ll wait all day for himself to make an introduction. I’m Maggie, pleased to meet you."

  "Donna, Donna O’Prey." They shook hands as Maggie rose from the table.

  "Lisa’s in her room, doing her revision. My girl must be one of the few who actually spends their time off doing revision. Some of them … well, God knows what they get up to." Maggie stopped in confusion, making a gesture of apology for the remark. "I’ll have to tell her what it’s about, in advance I mean. She’s not used to policemen, even ex-policemen. It’ll be easier for me to tell her than you."

  Dexter nodded his agreement.

  Maggie grimaced. "Bear with me; I’ll give her a shout." She got to her feet and turned to leave the room. She stopped in the doorway as if about to speak again, but obviously thought better of it and left the room.

  Dexter got to his feet, pushing the kitchen chair away from the small table. A mirror above the wall-mounted gas fire caught his attention. He looked carefully at his reflection.

  Tousled hair, face as crumpled as the open-necked shirt he was wearing, his appearance must have been a shock. Running his fingers through his thinning hair, he moaned aloud, checking himself at once as the first sound escaped his lips. Donna had to admit he did look pretty rough today.

  An old bakelite radio, what Peg would call a wireless, with an illuminated dial and enormous tuning wheel stood on the work surface. Donna watched him peer at it, as though he were examining the names of the stations on the dial. He turned and smiled at her.

  "Radio Luxembourg, God that takes me back. I remember tuning to that most nights years ago. Course there wasn't the choice there is now. Just the Home Service and the Light Programme. Terrible reception, after dark anyway, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Adverts too."

  "Fascinating."

  "Horace Bachelor," Dexter rambled on, oblivious to any sarcasm," he had a system which guaranteed winning the football pools."

  "Oh come on, spare me the all-our-bloody-yesterdays crap."

  Dexter looked annoyed, but shut up. Donna knew she'd overreacted, and even worse, suspected the fact he'd capitulated so easily was down to an assumption on his part that she was premenstrual. Trying to be a sensitive new-age man didn't suit him, and his diagnosis was wrong in any case. She took her frustrations out on Dexter far too often for the comfort of either of them. Dexter had rescued her from the depths of despair. She owed him so much, yet she still treated him like shit on occasions. She regretted it, every time, yet still she did it. Worrying.

  If she were honest, this case had got to her and she was beginning to doubt whether she could hack it. Paula Dobson’s tearstained face and the efforts she made to hold herself together, had affected her more than she’d realised. She wanted to get out there, find the girl, bring her home safe, and doing it Dexter’s way seemed to lack any sense of urgency.

  Dexter resumed his
seat at the table and they sat in silence, listening to the murmur of muted conversation along the corridor, then the click of heels as Maggie returned. "She’s on her way," she announced. "Listen, Dexter, I understand why you’re here, and I want to help as much as I can. But Lisa, well, what I’m trying to say is, go easy on her, right? I don’t know if she can help you, but I know she will if she can. Just take it easy, she’s not one of your police suspects."

  "Come on, what do you take me for?"

  "I don’t know. But I remember how you used to be, and can only hope you’ve mellowed a bit since then. Just remember Lisa is still only a kid herself; at least do that for …"

  Her voice tailed off as the door opened and Lisa came into the room, pulling nervously at the neck of her sweater. Dexter looked at her in apparent surprise. He’d told Donna he’d not seen the girl for five or six years, maybe longer. Five years is a long time for girls that age. Her baggy sweater and regulation school skirt could not disguise the fullness of her figure and her general air of maturity.

  "Hello Mister Dexter." Her voice was low in pitch, as cultured and polite as her appearance suggested. She returned Donna’s reassuring smile with interest.

  "Lisa." Dexter had stood at her entrance and remained on his feet, unsure of himself.

  "I’ll have to get back to work, if you’ll all excuse me." Maggie fixed Dexter with a glance as she left the room, reminding him of their previous conversation as Lisa sat down in the chair, waiting patiently.

  "I’m sorry you had to learn about Celine going missing in this way," Dexter said eventually. "I can’t tell you much more than your mother’s already told you. Not because I don’t want to, but because I just don’t know myself what happened to her. All I know is that she’s been missing for three days. Her mother thought she might have told you something."