Last Breath

by Robert Bryndza

  Erika took another slice of pizza from the box. ‘Um. I suppose so… I’m not really a girl.’

  ‘So you’re not fit, you’re not a bird or a girl… But you are pissed off with your boss. Can we at least agree on that?’

  Erika laughed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It gets in the way of what a good copper you are,’ he said, his face serious. She stopped smiling and nodded.

  ‘I don’t endear myself to top brass, do I?’

  ‘No. Now eat your pizza,’ he said. ‘Keep that foul mouth busy.’

  She nodded and took a bite. ‘Maybe I should go to this meeting tomorrow with a mouthful of pizza. It will keep me out of trouble.’

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Darryl had remained in his bedroom for the rest of the day, fearful of falling asleep, but wary of his parents. His head was mixed up. He’d had such courage when he took those women, but when they were dead and gone, it all drained away and he felt scared, insignificant, the weak little loser he’d always been. He spent the afternoon online, clicking through pictures of girls on Facebook, and profiles on Match.com. He was always looking: it was an addiction for him, a habit. He liked long dark hair, and he dragged a few pictures onto his desktop which took his fancy. He was just looking, that’s what he kept telling himself.

  He’d only ventured downstairs when he heard the creak of his parents climbing into bed. He found Grendel lying in her huge basket in the boot room, and her tail thumped when she saw him. He took a packet of honey roast ham from the fridge and split it with her, watching her huge white jaws as she chomped it down. He lay down, squashed in with her in the dog bed, and only then was he able to drift off to sleep.

  He woke just before five, warm against her soft furry back and wondered if the only person he could feel close to was Grendel; of course, she wasn’t a person. He was relieved to see the front of the tracksuit bottoms he wore were dry.

  * * *

  Darryl showered and took the early train into work the next morning. The dull routine of the office further comforted him, and the morning moved past unremarkably. He left for an early lunch, choosing to nip to the McDonald’s by Guy’s and St Thomas’s Hospital. When he returned with his grease-spotted bag of food there were only a handful of people in the large open-plan office, and Bryony was the only one in their section, eating alone at her desk.

  He sat down and started to unpack the contents of his food, and then looked up, feeling her eyes on him. She was chewing rhythmically, her eyes magnified and unblinking behind her grimy glasses. On closer inspection he could see, and smell, that she’d brought some leftover Indian food in a Tupperware container. He glanced up and smiled at her. A small piece of garlic clung to the top of her downy lip.

  ‘You didn’t fancy the pub with the others?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m there right now. This is merely a hologram,’ he replied, sweeping his arm over his face. She looked back at him with her blank face. ‘Bryony. That was a joke.’

  ‘Oh,’ she guffawed, ejecting a little of the chewed onion bhaji onto her chin. ‘Oops, I’m such a pig.’ She blushed, swiping it off with her finger and sucking it off the tip.

  Darryl turned to his computer and started to eat his McDonald’s. He logged onto the BBC website and was about to search for details of Ella Wilkinson when he heard her clear her throat behind him. He jumped.

  ‘Onion bhaji?’

  He looked around and Bryony stood behind him with her Tupperware container. It contained a neat row of dark bhajis nestling on a fold of paper towel. There was something childish about the way she held it out, as if she was offering him a crisp during playtime. They smelt good. He looked down at his McDonald’s, which had sweated and gone cold on his way back to the office.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, taking one. It was delicious.

  ‘My dad always orders too much Indian,’ she said, twirling her stubby fingers delicately over the box and picking one.

  ‘I love Indian; we don’t have a good one near where I live,’ he said through a mouthful.

  She nodded sheepishly, taking a big bite and chewing. ‘You didn’t have to worry about using the Internet, so long as you keep it to break times…’

  ‘It’s all doom and gloom, isn’t it? The news.’

  Bryony nodded. ‘Do you want another one?’ She pushed the Tupperware box up under his nose, thrilled that her playground friend wanted her to stick around. He took two.

  ‘Is that your dog?’ she asked, inclining her head to the photo of Grendel tacked to the bottom of his computer monitor.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘A he or a she?’

  ‘She.’

  ‘She’s beautiful, in an odd kind of way.’

  ‘Yes. She’s a mix of Staffordshire Terrier and Dalmatian,’ he said, unsticking the photo from the monitor. ‘Her name’s Grendel.’

  Bryony wiped her hand on the seat of her jeans and took the photo. ‘Grendel? Is that French?’

  ‘No. Do you know the story of Beowulf?’ he said, taking the photo out of her greasy grip.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, watching him wipe it off carefully with a tissue. ‘I saw the movie, Beowulf, you know, the cartoon.’

  ‘It wasn’t originally a movie. It’s an epic poem, ancient… Grendel is the monster.’

  ‘Why would you name your dog after a monster?’

  ‘Well, not everyone thinks Grendel is a monster. One person’s monster is another’s friend…’

  Bryony chewed thoughtfully for a moment and swallowed. She looked back to his computer and the BBC News page where there was a side piece about Ella Wilkinson.

  ‘I’ve been following that story. Those girls who were killed. I live near Waterloo, close to where the first one went missing.’

  ‘He wouldn’t go for you,’ said Darryl, taking a bite of his bhaji. Her face faltered. ‘I mean, you’re too clever to fall for some bloke on Internet dating.’

  ‘I’ve tried Internet dating. Didn’t have much luck,’ she said bashfully. Cos you probably used your own photo! a voice shouted in his head, but he used the silence to shove the rest of the bhaji into his mouth. ‘The first victim sold coffee, but the second one worked in an office job. She even had the same job title as me, Administrator,’ she said, pulling her top down over her backside with a large yet dainty hand.

  ‘You should keep your eyes peeled. Tell people where you’ll be,’ said Darryl. He imagined trying to kill her, the knife glancing off her blubbery thighs, and a guffaw escaped him. He clamped his hand over his mouth to fake a coughing fit. ‘I’m fine,’ he added, waving her away. ‘Fine.’

  Bryony thumped him on the back.

  ‘Better?’

  He nodded and took a sip of his Coke.

  ‘Darryl…’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I saw Beowulf when it was at the IMAX… I got a couple of tickets to the cinema, the IMAX, the one near Waterloo… They were a present for my birthday.’

  ‘When was your birthday?’ he asked.

  ‘Today,’ she said, looking down at her feet.

  ‘Oh. Happy birthday.’ He watched her for a moment, and she quickly seized another bhaji and bit into it.

  The IMAX cinema at Waterloo was built on what used to be the Bullring roundabout, near the train station. You could only get to it by going down through one of four dank, dark concrete underpasses, and they were often filled with homeless people. He’d fantasised about abducting a homeless girl. There was something about their desperation when confronted with death… Darryl looked up and realised Bryony had said something else.

  ‘So would you like to come, Darryl?’

  ‘To?’

  ‘The IMAX with me, tomorrow night. There’s a showing of Guardians of the Galaxy…’

  Darryl hesitated and then thought what a great opportunity it would be to look around, just look. It was a scratch that needed itching. It was a huge cinema, central, and Bryony could be a good cover.

  ‘Okay,’ he said.

&nb
sp; ‘So it’s a date?’ she said, chewing and swallowing the last of her bhaji.

  ‘Yeah. It’s a date,’ said Darryl. He kept the smile plastered to his face until she’d retreated back to her desk, her face flushed.

  He wiped the photo of Grendel again, and stuck it back to the bottom of the computer monitor. The screen had gone into sleep mode and was blank, and he was reminded of his reflection. Inside he felt like a strong invincible warrior, like Beowulf, but the face which stared back at him was podgy and ordinary, with a weak chin and beady eyes.

  He sat back in his chair and realised something; Bryony actually thought she had a chance with him. Her with him.

  He found it difficult to concentrate for the rest of the day, especially with Bryony opposite constantly looking up and smiling, and just before four, she even brought him a cup of coffee from Starbucks.

  He took it with a smile, but inside he was furious. He would show her. She would regret thinking they were in the same league.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  The next morning Erika and Melanie met at the New Scotland Yard building. They waited for twenty minutes in silence outside the Assistant Commissioner’s office until her secretary finally broke the heavy silence and they were shown through.

  Camilla was dressed to kill, but looked determined to at least maim in an elegant black trouser suit with a white silk blouse. She sat at the head of the conference table in the corner of her office. To her right sat a neat little man with a stern cherubic face. And on her left, a handsome young male uniformed officer was ready to take minutes. Melanie sat at the opposite end of the table, and Erika beside her.

  ‘Thank you for coming, ladies,’ said Camilla. ‘I’ve called this meeting to discuss the triple murder inquiry… Acting Commander Mason is joining us.’

  The neat little man nodded. Camilla opened a folder on the desk with a light flourish, and slipped on her glasses from a gold chain around her neck. ‘Acting Superintendent Hudson. Do you prefer Mel or Melanie?’

  ‘It’s Melanie, ma’am.’

  ‘Good, that’s very wise,’ she said, scanning the papers in front of her. Melanie looked confused; Erika gave her a sidewards glance. Camilla loved to confuse people during meetings with her off-the-cuff comments. Camilla went on. ‘Melanie, I asked you along here with Erika to get a broad idea of the case. The parents of Ella Wilkinson are now pursuing a formal complaint against you and the Metropolitan police through the Independent Police Complaints Commission, and along with Erika we’d just like to get your side of things. Informally, at this stage.’

  ‘Ma’am. There isn’t a side. There are facts. Would you like the facts?’ said Erika.

  Melanie didn’t object to the interruption.

  Camilla nodded.

  ‘I’ve been briefing Melanie at every step during this case. We were in the process of finalising the media appeal into the deaths of Janelle Robinson and Lacey Greene when we heard that Ella Wilkinson was missing. I had less than ten minutes to make a decision whether or not to include her abduction in our appeal. At that stage, all I knew was that Ella was of a similar age and looks to Lacey and Janelle, and she’d been reported missing in broadly similar circumstances. I took the decision not to include her name in the appeal at that time so as not to distract from the victims we did have. I also didn’t want to add fuel to rumours that we had a killer of multiple victims.’

  ‘I wasn’t kept fully updated with what was unfolding,’ said Melanie.

  Erika turned to her. ‘Yes, you were. But you were away at a conference and we weren’t able to speak.’

  ‘It was a racial awareness conference, ma’am.’

  Camilla held up her manicured hand. ‘How is that relevant?’ Melanie opened and closed her mouth, flummoxed. Camilla went on. ‘If it had been a conference about the prevention of scrumping apples, would you have told me with such relish?’

  ‘I’m just giving you the information, ma’am,’ said Melanie, stung.

  ‘I want useful information, not window dressing.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Melanie, struggling with her composure.

  Erika almost felt sorry for her.

  Camilla glanced at her file again. ‘Are you aware that a journalist from the national press visited Ella Wilkinson’s parents, the retired Chief Superintendent Wilkinson and his wife, and enlightened them on the details of your Specialist Firearms Operation?’

  ‘No,’ said Melanie, looking at Erika, who also shook her head.

  ‘They told him how you mobilised two Specialist Firearms Teams to raid the home of a Mr Darius O’Keefe and his recently widowed elderly mother. Mr O’Keefe, incidentally, also performs as a drag queen, “Crystal Balls” is his drag name…’

  Camilla paused for effect, and Erika saw a smile flicker across the face of the young officer taking minutes. Acting Commander Mason remained stern, placing his small neat hands on the table.

  Camilla continued: ‘Mr O’Keefe also wishes to make a formal complaint, saying that whilst the police were courteous, a Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifle was discharged in his costume store, damaging a plastic mannequin, which was holding a fake plastic revolver, and wearing a Swarovski-encrusted tubular bodice worth seventeen thousand pounds… I’m expecting all of this to run in the national tabloids with the added coda that, hours later, former Chief Superintendent Wilkinson’s daughter turned up dead.’

  Erika looked to Melanie, but she had sunk down in her seat and was staring at the polished surface of the table.

  ‘Ma’am, you must be aware that the press has twisted this to make us sound incompetent,’ said Erika. ‘We were acting on a tip-off from what we believed was a reliable source who came forward after seeing our appeal on television. I was aware that Ella Wilkinson had already been missing for three days, and time was running out. It was our duty to go in there and investigate what could have been a dangerous individual who had already abducted and killed two women. It’s all very well to sit here and recount the story as if it’s some amusing anecdote.’

  ‘I don’t find it amusing,’ snapped Camilla.

  ‘Careful decisions had to be made in a short time, ma’am, and I believe I did the best I could in a difficult and complex situation.’

  There was a cold silence. Erika looked across at Melanie, hoping she would jump in, but she remained quiet.

  ‘It’s not about what we believe, Erika,’ said Camilla. ‘It’s how public opinion is formed, and in this day and age much of what we do and the decisions we make are led by public opinion. Budgets are decided… policy… The press will now zone in on the targeting of a gay man, the damage to his livelihood, and the cost to the taxpayer of deploying two teams from the Specialist Firearms Unit at short notice!’

  ‘Why are we even having this meeting?’ snapped Erika. ‘You’ve decided to take a rather blinkered view of the facts: you’re looking at them through a tabloid lens.’

  ‘Erika, watch your tone,’ said Melanie.

  ‘So now you decide to speak, and pull rank,’ said Erika, unable to stop herself.

  ‘Melanie is your Superintendent,’ said Mason, speaking for the first time.

  ‘Acting Superintendent,’ said Erika. ‘And forgive me, sir, but you were involved in our decision. Do you have anything to contribute?’

  Mason shifted in his chair. ‘I don’t appreciate being placed on the spot,’ he said.

  ‘Placed on the spot!’ cried Erika. ‘This is a meeting about a Specialist Firearms Operation that was ultimately authorised by you, sir!’

  ‘Could you please wait outside, Erika,’ said Camilla.

  Erika thought back to what Sparks had said, the night before he died, how he’d been unfairly hauled over the coals by Camilla, and she wished he were here. If only because he had balls. Melanie was sitting like a meek church mouse.

  ‘Can I please add on the record that, whilst having the support of the public is essential to the job of policing, the public never have the full picture of what it takes
to run a police investigation—’

  ‘Erika.’

  ‘Please don’t let this investigation be dominated by the upset of one of the victims. My team has been working tirelessly to apprehend the killer of these three young women. That is our priority, ma’am.’

  Camilla gave her a thin smile.

  ‘Thank you, Erika, now please, that will be all,’ she said.

  Melanie merely stared ahead as Erika walked out of the room. Fuming.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Erika was waiting for Melanie in an unmarked police car outside the New Scotland Yard building. It had been arranged before the meeting that they would travel together to Sparks’s funeral. Melanie emerged ten minutes later, and got in beside her. There was a nasty atmosphere as the car set off.

  ‘From now on I want to know everything that’s going on,’ she snapped. ‘I want to be informed of every decision you make.’

  ‘So I’ll just continue what I was doing, and it’s up to you to make sure you answer your voicemails,’ Erika shot back.

  ‘I am your senior officer!’ shouted Melanie, turning to her.

  ‘Then act like it! Erika roared back. They stared at each other, then turned away and stared out at the buildings whipping past.

  ‘Sorry, I just have to check – what time’s the funeral?’ asked the uniformed officer driving.

  ‘It starts in an hour, so you better put your foot down,’ said Erika.

  ‘You have my authority to blue light it if necessary,’ added Melanie. The driver eyed Erika in the mirror.

  ‘You know that’s unlawful. There’s no justification for us to use blue lights to go to a funeral,’ said Erika. Melanie looked at her and the driver.

  ‘Of course. I just wanted to make sure we didn’t miss our colleague’s funeral.’

  ‘I’ll get you there as fast as I can,’ said the driver.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Erika.

  They passed the rest of the journey in silence.