She never lets anyone see anything beyond what she wants them to see, he thought, as his own rear slowly descended back on to the hard chair situated across the desk from his boss. As his buttocks hit the seat, Dawson carried on as if Carver’s outburst had not happened. In Jack’s considered opinion, she always reacted to his temperamental flares like this, hoping it would wind him up even more.
‘We sidelined several suspicious deaths, some gang related, and a dozen other serious crimes that now need to be dealt with — all investigations put on hold while we concentrated our energies on your latest collar.’
‘Aw, come off it, Boss!’ His voice climbed again, then dropped back to normal as he caught himself. ‘This is not about me!’
Jack wished he had just half of Soundbite’s self-control, but the truth was, he had always engaged his mouth before fully working things through in his head, and although the passage of years had mellowed him and enabled him to rapidly reassert control over his tongue, he still had difficulty resisting letting loose his initial reaction.
‘Our clear up rate…’ She paused, her gravestone stare holding him, unblinking.
Like a bloody automaton, he decided, waiting to see if the unstable human specimen who had stomped into her office would respond. He held himself in check, so she went on.
‘…has been badly affected by the Brentwood Beast case and I have to carefully consider where to focus our efforts. We do not have a limitless budget, Jack. We have targets to hit. The overtime bill for the last quarter has wiped out the budget for the rest of the year. I can’t let you have more staff at this time.’
‘Seriously? Me and one sergeant? Plus some other back up personnel on a shared basis… For a murder investigation…’ The sourness in his tone leaked out despite his best efforts to mimic her lack of emotion.
‘It is not a murder, Jack. At least, not yet.’ She shuffled some papers from her in-tray and offered them to him. ‘If you want, you can take your pick. Dump Mister Mutilated for a proper murder enquiry. You said DS Fielding had a promising lead already. Looks like she can handle this one.’
‘But what about the other vic? Diana Davies? The cold case you convinced me was related — when you woke me up this morning.’ He almost added, Don’t you ever sleep? but thought better of it.
‘Well, that was slightly premature on my part, as I misinterpreted the initial reports. This latest individual seems to bear little resemblance to the Davies case. Dismembered and disfigured, yes, but there the similarity ends. Female. Crude hacking of the limbs, no real effort to keep her alive, a likely sexual dimension given the traces of semen inside her. And so on…’ She steepled her fingers and pressed herself back into her executive chair. ‘On balance, I’m inclined to think they are unrelated.’
‘Well, I don’t agree.’ When Jack had arrived at the office and discovered Soundbite had cut their team to the bone he had stormed up the stairs to her office determined to get more resources, but now, with the benefit of her calming influence, he realised he had taken the wrong tack. He should have explained about Doc’s letter and how it had apparently been timed to arrive this morning, coinciding with their grisly discovery on Clapham Common. He filled her in on his conversation with Doc in the hope he could convince her to give him more men, his enthusiasm for the case building as he explained. ‘I don’t want to switch. I want to find the evil git that chopped all these people to pieces.’ He tossed his copies of Doc’s other photographs across the desk, and sat back, arms folded.
‘So, Doctor Powers is joining your team? Well, that’s good news, Jack, although I had not budgeted for a consultant profiler… Here’s the deal.’ She smiled, but the Botox smoothed lines of her face eliminated any humanity from the gesture. ‘I’ll find the money for your pal,’ a pause, as if waiting for Jack to interject, then, ‘and he can join your team. I’ll review your resources if the victim dies…’
‘That’s almost inevitable boss. The hospital houseman I spoke to this morning thinks he was left in the tree for hours. The perp probably expected our vic to be dead by the time the old boy discovered him.’ Fifi’s report on her interview with Gerald Butler had already reached Dawson, and the sergeant was now downstairs, working on locating her suspect. Carver was yet to be convinced that the victim was posed deliberately for the geriatric to find, but held his scepticism in check for now. ‘Apparently, Mister M was dehydrated almost to the point of no return by the time the ambulance arrived. Needs to be fed intravenously, around eighteen hours a day, every day, if he’s to live.’
‘Parenteral nutrition, Jack.’ An almost smug look visited her plastic features before they relaxed back to neutral. ‘Very common for people who’ve had their bowels removed. But rife with complications… Go on.’
Jack wondered how his boss knew the technical details of such an unusual procedure, and almost asked if a friend or family member had suffered the experience, but her businesslike attitude always left him floundering when it came to personal matters. He decided to stay on track.
‘Yeah, that’s what the medic called it. Anyway, they aren’t sure how long they can keep him alive. Days maybe.’
Good thing too. Trapped in that flesh prison, still suffering horrendously…
And Jack would get the resources he needed if the victim died.
‘Keep me posted.’ The Acting Super glanced at her Rolex, then added, ‘I’ve got a news conference in fifteen to tell the world we’ve charged the Beast. I think we’re done.’
Jack eased himself upright and muttered, ‘Bloody press. Parasites, the lot of ’em.’
‘And that, Detective Inspector Carver, is one of the reasons you will never be behind this desk.’
Carver paused, and watched her as she took a compact from her drawer and checked her hazel bangs, smoothed her pencilled brows and twisted some red lipstick from its miniature phallic container before applying it to her lips. He thought she was goading him, aware of their nickname for her, her reputation for a love of the limelight. He kept quiet, made a move for the door, then her voice cut through him.
‘I know you think I only got here because of what I have between my legs, Jack. Positive discrimination and all that. Women promoted over their more able male counterparts. That’s total bollocks, you know?’
He had reached the door, had a hand on the knob, ready to get out of here and do something useful. Like finding a killer.
‘Why would you believe I think that?’ She was right, but he would not admit it to her.
‘I’ve been on the job for fifteen years, Jack. I know what a misogynistic bunch you old timers can be. I’ve suffered first hand… Okay, I’ll admit you’re a great hands-on detective. Probably better than I was.’
There was not much doubt about that, in Carver’s mind.
‘My clear up rate is the best in the division, ma’am.’
‘Indeed it is, Detective, but that’s not enough. Your problem is one of attitude and suitability — or rather, lack of it. You are too impetuous at times, and that makes you something of a liability.’
‘That’s not fair —’
‘You don’t know me well, Carver, but in the six months I’ve had the pleasure of working with you, observing you, I can tell you that your obvious disdain for your superiors, your reluctance to engage with the politics of the job, well, these things will continue to hold you back.’
‘Meanwhile, you’re about to go and take all the credit and glory for my team’s efforts, preening in front of the cameras, as if you single-handedly nicked the bastard yourself, despite being sat behind a desk all the time. That’s not what the job’s about! Or bloody budgets!’
‘Well there you have it, Jack. I read about your insubordination, though this is one of the rare occasions I’ve witnessed it first-hand. I’ll give you a pass today given the result you have just delivered. But you need to understand, the press can be a useful tool for us. They make better allies than enemies… I saw your performance this morning. Scowling at that BBC
reporter, repeating No comment! over and over as you brushed her questions off. Learn to throw them a bone or two without compromising what you’re doing.’
‘Oh, right-oh then! You know there are pictures of our latest victim all over the internet? Mister Mutilated was a term coined earlier this morning by one of those bloody press parasites from The Crusader — he breached all sorts of newspaper rules and ethics getting those photos, but we can’t even charge him with a crime. No complaint from the victim, and one of the nurses in the hospital stupidly left the bastard alone with him…’
‘I sense a bit of kettle and pot calling, Jack. You also seem to have a habit of disregarding the rules. Your, shall we call it, liaison with that rather attractive WPC… Erm, Wendy Turner. That too, showed a blatant lack of respect for the rank you hold and the role you should play as one of the Met’s senior officers.’
‘That was three years ago. Long before you arrived. I paid my dues for that!’ And liaison seemed a rather polite term for what they were caught doing. A blow job in the ladies’ loos. His tone quietened, a gruff acknowledgement of his guilt. ‘Shouldn’t have happened, I know.’
Wendy had been shot by a lunatic on parole shortly after the event, something that should never have happened either. He swallowed back the thought, the sudden uninvited weight of grief over her death surprising him.
‘Yes, indeed you did. It was a good job for you that you were both off duty. Otherwise...’
Carver wondered then, why she had brought this up. And why now?
Okay, it was true. He’d been caught with his pants round his ankles, immediately after knocking off for the night… Caught with a junior officer, a uniformed copper he’d been liaising with for some time.
‘Is this gonna be a problem between us, ma’am?’
He did not want a transfer, but if she had a grudge against him, maybe thinking he was some sort of misogynistic predator, abusing his seniority, well, he’d just have to get out of here.
‘No, Jack. I just want you to understand that I’m not some bit of fluff. Not some weak female, over-promoted despite there being supposedly more able male officers. I worked my tits off to get where I am. I’ve consistently put in more hours than any of my colleagues, and still do. My results may not have been as stellar as yours over the years, but unlike you, I also know how to play the game. Which is why you’re in your mid-forties reporting to someone in her mid-thirties. So just deal with it. And get me some results. Now bugger off. I have a TV crew waiting.’
Jack, duly castigated, fumed inwardly at the truth of her words. Then it occurred to him. Was she purposely antagonising him? As he mulled that thought over he wondered whether it was some weird management ploy. Maybe she was trying to get him worked up enough to prove he really was better than her.
Well, if she was, the ploy worked.
Then the realisation hit him. She had done the exact same thing when they first started working together, when he had been tasked with the Brentwood Beast case…
Maybe she was smarter than he gave her credit for. Giving him limited resources while demanding a wide ranging investigation with a potential link to other serious crimes — three unsolved cases to clear up. Then rubbing his nose in his shitty career prospects…
Was this just a challenge to his ego?
Of course it was.
The manipulative cow.
Well, he would show Soundbite Sadie just how good he really was, and not only crack the Mister Mutilated case, but solve the other cold case murders too.
All four for the price of one.
Fair enough! Now, how’s Fifi getting on with her lead?
He took the stairs two at a time, also thinking he had yet to properly fill his sergeant in on the expanded scope of their investigation. He would do that now and also let her know the three of them were pretty much on their own, thanks to Dawson’s lack of support.
At least, until their victim died.
***
DS Fiona Fielding’s eyes were itching from screen glare. She tried to rub the sensation away with the back of her fists, pressing her eyeballs into their sockets in a vain search for relief. She had been through all the available CCTV coverage of the nearest road adjacent to the footpath on Clapham Common where Gerald had discovered Mister M. The common was mostly open, with a football pitch, ponds and green space for people to play frisbee or picnic or soak up the sun’s rays.
Jack had suggested she concentrate her efforts on the access points in the south-east corner. Here, he had explained, the shrubbery and tree cover was sufficient to prevent passing motorists on the South Circular Road from seeing someone humping a human torso through the undergrowth before hanging it from a tree. It was unlikely the perpetrator would have taken a longer route than necessary, and probably parked nearby before manhandling his victim to his chosen site, close to the footpath several hundred metres from the road.
The uniforms had collected the videos earlier that morning, not that there was much to work with. Two all-night stores and one solicitor’s office with security cameras had offered up relevant coverage, overlooking that section of the common. Carver had suggested checking from two until six in the morning, given that the victim would likely be dead if he had been dumped any earlier. Twelve hours of tape to view, and, as she suspected, he insisted she checked it all out, personally.
And for what?
Nothing. Nada. Zilch. A big fat zero.
She checked her watch, thinking she was now seriously hungry, and not a little grumpy.
Jesus! I’ve spent three fucking hours at this.
Yes, she had increased the playback speed, zipping through most of the recordings and then slowing to check out any activity, suspicious or otherwise, involving passing vehicles or pedestrians, so now, her brain was melting.
Enough!
She would check with the General Register Office to see if they had made any progress in locating the suspect Gerald Butler had identified. As she shut down the monitor, she heard her belly grumble.
Time for a spot of lunch.
But then her boss, puffing from exertion, poked his head into the viewing room. He had other ideas.
She turned at the noise and saw his face, now pink and sweaty, peering round the door, and she wondered what had happened. Was he having a heart attack or something?
‘Come on, Fifi. You’re not still watching telly, are ya?’
No, not a heart attack then.
She pursed her lips as he winked at her, grinning inanely.
‘Don’t just sit there, Sarge. Get your arse into gear. We’ve got work to do!’
***
‘So, tell me why you reckon it’s the grandson.’
Carver stuffed the remains of a gourmet bacon, egg and tomato sandwich into his mouth, finally giving Fiona enough time to answer properly. He was definitely in one of his hyper moods, having fired off a dozen questions about the videos and her interview with Piers Reid, cutting off the answers as soon as he was satisfied he had heard enough.
He could be maddening, but he was also a stimulating boss, and she felt totally comfortable with him. He was thoughtful too. Enough to order sandwiches for them both, from Pret a Manger, not the canteen, and he’d even remembered she didn’t eat mustard on her ham and Brie baguette. So here they were, in his new BMW 5 series, ploughing through London traffic on their way to Gerald Butler’s home, having an impromptu working lunch.
Carver had also filled her in on why he thought they were on to something much bigger than just Mister M, and she was well pleased to hear that Doc Powers was joining them officially as a full time consultant too. Jack and Doc had a pretty amazing reputation and now she would be working with them both in an elite unit, no less, according to her boss. A tight team, with no outsiders. It would mean working long hours, but it would be worth it.
Fiona was convinced.
Her mood had lightened as she followed in the trail of the whirlwind her boss created before leaving the office. Four idle o
fficers had been sitting, yakking about taking down the Brentwood Beast, wallowing in reflected glory, when Carver had descended on them and dumped Fifi’s unfinished tasks on them.
‘You lot. Stop loafing around. You waiting for some work?’ He didn’t give them time to answer, though it was obvious they were just finishing their admin for the Beast case, tying up loose ends, while revelling in a rare moment of kudos. ‘Right, Gerald Butler found a mutilated body on Clapham Common today. You’ve all heard, right?’ He snatched a file from Fiona’s fingers and dumped it on one of their desks. ‘He told Fifi here that his grandson put the victim there for him to find. I want that person traced. Details are in here. The Registry have been working on this already so check what they’ve got, and then find him for me. And yeah, Butler may have fifty male grandkids for all we know, so get on with it.’
Fiona had not been unhappy to have that bit of grunt work passed off to her colleagues and now slurped her coffee before answering Jack’s question.
‘Well, it was like a confessional boss, he’d already had the last rites. Grandson was his very last word when I asked him who had put Mister M there for him to find, and I’m absolutely certain he understood exactly what I was asking.’ She was not sure she had convinced her boss, and the few hours that had passed since she had left the hospital, walking on air, elated at the lead she had wheedled out of Butler, had filled her with doubts too, but she still wanted to believe it was true. ‘The young lad who found him said the old man was adamant, too. Kept repeating over and over that the victim had been left there for him.’
Carver smacked his lips and made hoovering noises as his tongue sucked the last crumbs from between his teeth and cheeks. ‘Mmm.’ More oral cleansing took place, then, ‘Seems pretty unlikely, don’t you think? And Butler gave no explanation why a member of his own family would leave a mutilated victim for him to discover, almost certainly knowing his grandad would finger him for the deed. Hardly the actions of a successful serial killer.’
The thought had occurred to her, and when Carver had explained about Doc receiving that letter this morning, her own line of enquiry seemed much less certain to yield a result. She just frowned, her frustration and disappointment surfacing as her boss continued to shred her confidence in the old man’s assertion.
Mutilated: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 2) Page 7
