Dead Blonde

by Beck Robertson

  “You’ve always been nothing but an embarrassment to me.”

  Her voice was a dry hiss, snake like. The blood in his veins felt like it was boiling hot.

  “Shut up! You just shut up!” he raged at the glass screeching, a vein on the side of his neck standing out as his face contorted in rage. The vision continued to mock him, one eyebrow raised, her smile a triumphant grimace.

  Wheeling around to confront her, grab her by the throat, he found himself clutching at empty air instead. That was a deliberately sneaky trick, to evade him like that by disappearing. Just typical of her to play tricks on him like that. Turning back to the mirror he returned to buttoning his shirt, deciding to ignore her. Bending his head to the task, his fingers froze mid button, as the voice spoke in his ear again.

  “You think I was bad for what I did to you, you should have never even been born for how you made me suffer. You’re unnatural, a monster” she spat, taunting him, her tone liquid evil. This time though, he refused to raise his face to the mirror to acknowledge her, choosing to squeeze his eyes shut tight instead.

  “You’re not real, you’re not real, it’s just a trick. You can’t really be here, you’re just a figment of my imagination,” he repeated, chanting to himself desperately, and stuffing his fingers in his ears in an effort to block out the voice, to make it stop, to make her disappear.

  Breathing hard, he stayed that way for a good five minutes till he was sure she had gone.

  “It will all be over soon” he muttered to himself as he finally dared to open his eyes, stealing a look at his reflection in the glass again to ensure he was alone.

  “It’s over Mother” he mouthed silently to the mirror, as he finished buttoning the dark shirt he wore, his breathing calming slowly as his fingers gave up their tremble. Completing the task, he walked slowly to the back of the door, to where he always kept it, that crucial part of his executioner’s uniform. Slipping it from its hanger he pulled it on, placing one arm inside a sleeve and then the other, the dark wool of the coat now shrouding his frame, as his fingers fastened yet more buttons, these ones bigger and only three of them.

  Turning, he walked back across the room to open the drawer where the box was kept, where it was kept secreted inside its small wooden vault, wrapped in a velvet shroud. Pausing before the drawer, he fingered the key that hung around his neck suspended from the worn leather thong that had weathered the years. The thong had been knotted along several spots over the years in an effort to strengthen it, to reinforce it in the places it had weakened.

  Tracing the outline of the small key thoughtfully with his fingertips, he felt its length, before bending forward slowly to open the drawer. Retrieving the smallish bundle lying within, wrapped in its soft, dark blanket, he lifted it up gently, unwrapping the cloth ritualistically, almost reverently. Reaching for the little key again, he slotted it neatly into the small keyhole located at the oblong shaped mahogany box’s front.

  The lock clicked open, and lifting the lid, he revealed the blade cushioned inside; nestled on its velveteen pillow as still as a cadaver. He stood there for a second, just marvelling at it, before lifting the blade out carefully, allowing a finger to run along the length of its sharpness to remind himself of its power. Slipping the blade into the pocket of his coat, he closed the lid of the box, replacing it back in the drawer. He was almost ready now.

  Plucking a pair of latex medical gloves from the dresser, he pulled them on before bending down to one of dresser drawers and retrieving another pair of gloves. These ones were made of black leather, soft and pliable, the very best quality. As was befitting he who wielded the sword of justice. The only one who could complete this cycle of violence, of hatred, of pain, the only one who could silence her voice.

  Sliding the drawer shut, he walked back to the mirror, his step more confident now, his carriage straighter, his walk imbued with the confidence of knowing that she will not dare to mock him this time, and soon not ever again. Standing in front of the glass, feet planted squarely apart, he pulled on the gloves slowly, each movement deliberate, pinching and rolling to ensure the leather fitted perfectly, just so, his gaze focused and intense as he eyed himself.

  Nodding to his reflection, he stood there before the looking glass, a dark figure, seemingly shrouded in shadows despite the relative sunshine of the day. He grinned at himself, the expression one of eerie inevitability. His whole life had been spent waiting for this moment, the moment his freedom was poised on the very edge of a knife. Leaning in closer to his image in the mirror, his breath frosted the glass lightly, as he murmured into the frame, his fingertips scratching at the outline of his reflection.

  “It’s time now Mother” he said, the words intended for an unseen spectator, an old foe. The source from where he once sprang, malformed perhaps, but in need of her protection all the same, she who should have nurtured him but instead rejected him. She who shaped him, moulded him, made him into what he had become.

  “It will be over now,” he mouths again, his expression cold and emotionless, his face a study in nothing, a perfect mask, those terrifyingly blank eyeholes the only glimpse of the void inside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE - DEACON

  Deacon rose the next morning, his head slightly groggy from too much alcohol. he hadn’t meant to drink so much but morbid thoughts of Maria, coupled with his frustration at having to hang up on Brandon, had seen him succumb to a final nightcap before he had finally passed out at around 2am.

  Rubbing his eyes he blinked, squinting as he peered over to the clock, the large black face illuminated by the square cut neon red numbers proclaiming boldly that it was 8:00 AM. He cringed inwardly, 8AM already; he was going to be seriously late for work if he didn’t drag himself out of the relative safety of his bed.

  Groaning, he got to his feet, stretching his neck first right then left, the muscles in his back cracking slightly at the effort as slowly he padded towards the bathroom to the shower.

  Forty five minutes later he was seated at his usual work station, staring blankly at the mass of post it notes that he’d stuck over the surface of his desk. The case had as yet yielded no real leads, while somewhere outside a killer remained at large. He stared down at one of the post it notes at the handwriting he’d scrawled across the surface.

  Sally Brooks Murder Case – Facts and Unanswered Questions. There had to be a clue that had been missed, something, anything, the case had all the hallmarks of Birthstone. The Brooks girl had to have been his first victim. But he had been through the case notes over and over again, and nothing had seemed to reveal any potential clues as to who a likely suspect might be. There was no motive, not even a partial sighting or ID, and the dead girl’s mother had not been able to shed any light on the situation either.

  The only person who may be able to remember something that they had overlooked on the Brook’s case was Louise Randall, and she didn’t seem to be contactable. He spied DC Barnes, over in the corner, talking with Doyle. She looked animated, waving a white piece of paper around. Catching Barnes’s eye he gestured for him to come over.

  “Sarge?”

  “Barnes, I need you to get a picture of someone for me. You can get him to send one through by email. Adam Jackson, he works at First Financial.”

  “Wasn’t that the company the Wheeler girl was working at?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got his phone number, got a pen?” He related the number as the young rookie took out his notebook and jotted it down.

  “Oh and Barnes?”

  “Yeah Sarge?”

  “When you get the picture, print it off, and call the owner at Sweethearts Strip Club. I’ll give you the number, he can give you the address, it’s in Soho. I need him to open up the club. And get him to get Michelle Swan down there and show her the picture. See if she recognizes it.”

  A unfathomable expression momentarily crossed the young cop’s face.

  “You ok?” He looked at the young cop questioningly, knitting his brows.

/>   “Yeah Sarge, just got a load on. Beeton wants me to look into that stabbing last week in Ealing.”

  “Well this is important. I need you on it asap,” he said, frowning.

  “Why do you need them to open up the place?”

  “Cos while you’re down there I want you to see if you can get the CCTV off security. I want all the tapes for the last two months. You can start looking through ‘em when you get back, get Hobbs to help.”

  “Alright Sarge,” Barnes said, nodding his assent as he turned away.

  Frowning he turned back to the post it notes on his desk. Even though it was supposed to be the age of technology he still preferred to do things the old school way. Much to Doyle’s chagrin, she was always nagging him to put everything on the computer. They had to find Louise Randall that much was clear. But in the meantime there was Jackson to follow up. Flipping on the power button to his computer, he entered his password at the familiar log on screen.

  Thirty minutes later and the machine was halfway through running a detailed background ID check on Adam Jackson when he looked up to see Doyle standing at his desk, holding a sheet of paper. Slightly startled, he raked a hand through his hair self-consciously, how long had she been standing there? He looked up at her quizzically, noting the rather urgent looking expression she wore.

  “Gaine. Got a lead on the case, think it could be significant,” she said, thrusting the piece of paper under his nose. He took it and studied the photocopy for a moment, not quite understanding.

  “Mrs Kemp’s massage receipt?” He looked at her questioningly, observing her intense face as she leaned forward to gesture to the letter

  “Look closer, see the name of the therapist on the receipt?” He blinked at the name on the paper trying to take it in.

  “So Mya Chamino was Mrs Kemp’s massage therapist?” She nodded at him.

  “Yep, so it seems. And, I called the spa, they said she would sometimes visit Mrs Kemp at home for a private appointment.” His eyebrows shot up at that.

  “This links Kemp directly to two of the vics,” Doyle said, her voice rising excitedly as she tapped the piece of paper with a fingertip.

  “Bloody good work Doyle, find Kemp and haul him in again for questioning. And do some more digging on his alibi for the night Marilyn Channing was murdered. Let’s see if we can’t find a ruddy great hole in it.”

  “Already on it. DC Sarder’s in hospital having bypass surgery this week and Beeton’s put me on his cases since we seem to be a bit stretched resource wise here. I told him I need to work on Birthstone but he wouldn’t’ listen.”

  “Fuck’s sake I need everyone on it,” he said, rolling his eyes. If he didn’t know better he’d think the portly Chief was trying to sabotage the investigation.

  “I know, but that gang shooting that happened last week in Fulham? I’m going wrap it up and fling the book at the culprits this afternoon then I’ll be back on it,” she said, attempting to placate him.

  “What about Kemp?”

  “Will you be alright questioning Kemp if I set it up?” she said, looking at him hopefully. Great, so he’d have to do without Doyle for the afternoon. He nodded reluctantly and she leaned over his desk to pat his arm.

  “Look officially I know I’m supposed to be working on Sarder’s shooting but, if you really need me, you know you just have to ask…” she said, her eyes seeking his.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it,” he acknowledged, shaking his head, “but God knows what with Beeton breathing down all our necks about this case, Sarder’s really picked a fucking bad time to go in for major surgery,” he added with more vehemence. She nodded, giving him a small smile before turning away.

  “Doyle, wait,” he said, calling after her, and she turned back, shooting him a questioning look.

  “Uhhh just a couple of things actually. Can you send Barnes my way asap, I need him to run another check on someone?”

  “Yeah, sure, anything else?”

  “And uhh I just wondered if you fancied catching a beer and a steak after work. You know just thought we could catch up on things a bit?” he offered, suddenly feeling a little foolish, though he was unsure quite as to why. She smiled, a brittle , thin smile and shrugged her shoulders.

  “I can’t sorry,” she said, shaking her head, “I’ve got some chores and stuff to get on with at home maybe we can do it later on in the week?” He nodded making an effort to smile at her, though inside he felt strangely disappointed.

  “Course we can. But chores, you sure? Didn’t think you even knew what that word meant? Sure you haven’t got a secret date?” he bantered. She raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Jealous all of a sudden are you?” She looked at him, as if she were waiting for him to say something but he suddenly felt unsure of what to say.

  “Well if I did, I’d make sure he wasn’t half cut when he asked me out and I’d check that he was ok to stay for breakfast in the morning,” she glared. He winced, that had been a bit harsh, but he probably deserved it. He stared at her as she turned to leave.

  “See you later,” she said, her voice sounding a little sad. Just then his computer beeped, the search on Jackson must have finished. Turning his attention to the machine, his eyes flicked over the results.

  School, college, everything looked pretty pedestrian. Place of work checked out, no prior convictions, not even so much as a sniff of a parking ticket or speeding fine. Jackson looked to be above board alright.

  “Fuck it,” he muttered aloud, as he clicked through the data displayed on his monitor.

  Oh well back to the drawing board. Wait, hang on, what was that? He clicked back a couple of screens, that address, where had he seen it before? That was the Randall woman’s address, but, how? He craned his neck forward. Why on earth was Jackson listed as having previously lived there? His mind raced, trying to make sense of the situation. Unless, could Jackson somehow be related to Mrs Randall? Surely it must be some kind of mistake? Staring at the screen, his eyes scanned the data from left to right as he read.

  Name: Adam Jackson

  National Insurance Number: JR445578B

  That was the same as the one Jackson had given him. And then, there it was, glaring out at him from the computer monitor:

  Mother: Michelle Randall, 32 Cheyne Walk, Chertsey, Surrey. What? Jackson was the son?

  Grabbing the phone, he punched in the digits fast, impatiently drumming his fingers on the desktop as it rang. Once, twice, three times it rang, and still no answer. Where was she? Four, five, then suddenly a woman’s voice. Ah, thank god.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello Mrs Randall”, he said, relieved she had answered.

  “It’s Inspector Deacon Gaine on the line, remember we met before? I came to your house to ask you some questions about the Sally Brook’s murder case?” he added, trying to jog her memory.

  The slightly confused voice changed to one of recognition. He could almost hear the cogs turn in her mind as the association was made.

  “Inspector I told you I really don’t know where my daughter is.”

  “Mrs Randall it’s not about Louise. I need to speak with you urgently about your son. I didn’t realise he had been brought into our enquiries at first, I didn’t make the connection. Not until he came up on our system.” There was a silence on the other end of the phone, and he feared for a moment that the line had been cut off.

  “Mrs Randall are you there?” he ventured. She coughed on the other end, clearing her throat.

  “Mrs Randall?”

  The woman spoke, her tone like ice.

  “I really don’t know what the meaning of all this is but I think you will find there has been some kind of mistake. My son,” her voice faltered slightly “my son, Brynn, is dead Inspector. He was killed fourteen years ago in a car crash in the French Pyrenees. Now if you please, unless you have any other further questions for me, I have to go. I have someone coming round to visit me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX - BIRTHSTONE
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  He arrived a little earlier than expected, traffic en route not being as bad as usual, the sporty blue Mazda he drove bringing him to the front door of the small, suburban, terraced house a good 30 minutes faster than he had previously anticipated. Standing there a while, he stared trancelike at the little green painted door for a minute or two, before raising a hand to the brass knocker and rapping upon it sharply a couple of times.

  He heard her inside, making her way up to the door and pausing to look through the spyhole. Recognizing him, she opened the door, nodding at him in the resigned way she always did as she gestured for him to come inside.

  “Well I suppose you’d better come in then” she said, and he stepped inside as she closed the door behind them with a neat click, the white net curtains blowing upwards, perturbed by the sudden disturbance.

  She looked older than when he last saw her, even though it was only a couple of months ago, her face seemed to have changed slightly or perhaps he was just imagining it. The occasion was special after all even if she didn’t quite realise it yet. She looked at him awkwardly as they stood there eyeing each other, each sizing the other up like two hostile animals, predator and unknowing prey.

  Knowing she felt uncomfortable in his presence pleased him somehow, he enjoyed making her squirm, enjoyed the look in her eyes as she tried, and failed to read him, his face remaining quite unfathomable to her. He supposed that might be one of the reasons for her immense dislike of him, the fact she had never been able to tell what he was thinking had always irked her.

  She spoke again, her voice falsely cheerful, as if she were trying to sound like a normal mother would.

  “Come on through to the lounge then and you can see how I’ve decorated the place I do suppose.” Following her into the small, low ceilinged room, he remained silent, still not uttering a word.

  “Well it’s not much here but it’s home at least” she said, slightly uneasily, as she pointed to the cream coloured walls. Perhaps she had sensed something was wrong, perhaps some innate primordial instinct was alerting her to danger.