Still the inspectors hesitated.
‘He experiences the deaths.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked DI Hunt.
‘He feels what the victims are feeling,’ said Steve, thinking back to those harrowing attacks. ‘He has done for sixteen years.’
The inspectors looked back at Psimon’s huddled form.
‘He’s coming… he’s coming… he’s coming…’ Psimon continued to whisper over and over.
Steve could see that they were struggling to accept what he was telling them, who would not. But they no longer gave him the impression that he was wasting police time.
They turned back to Steve.
‘Where were you on the night of Wednesday the 4th of March?’ asked DI Regan.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ thought Steve putting his head in his hands.
‘Last Wednesday night,’ said DI Hunt. ‘Where were you?’
‘Flying out to Florida,’ growled Steve with growing annoyance. ‘With him!’ He stabbed his finger at Psimon as he got to his feet.
‘There’s no reason to get angry, Mr Brennus,’ said DI Regan.
‘There is every reason to get angry, you pompous twat,’ stormed Steve. ‘I called you guys for help; to help you catch a psychopathic serial killer. And all you can do is…’
Steve reigned in his temper and turned away from the inspectors.
‘Do you really think I would call the police if I had anything to do with these murders,’ he said.
‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ said DI Regan.
Steve rounded on the annoying police officer but before he could say anything else he was interrupted by the sound of a car alarm; a very familiar car alarm.
DI Hunt moved to the window.
‘Is that your BMW?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Steve crossing quickly to the window.
DI Hunt nodded down to the car and the row of bikes that had fallen like dominoes towards it.
‘Aw, shit!’ cursed Steve.
The last bike in the row had fallen heavily against his car, the handlebars wedged firmly in the BMW’s radiator grill.
‘I think you’d better move it before your neighbours hear the alarm,’ said DI Hunt. ‘Unless you want to knock on their door and ask for their insurance details.’
‘It’s not my sodding fault,’ protested Steve but he knew the inspector was right.
A hoard of drunken bikers might not be the most rational of folk, especially when their beloved bikes had just been trashed. He strode towards the stairs but stopped when the two inspectors made to follow him.
‘Someone needs to stay with Psimon,’ he said.
‘I’ll stay,’ said DI Regan but Steve was not happy about that.
‘No offence,’ he said. ‘But this guy is twice your size. I’d rather you stayed.’
Steve looked at DI Hunt, who was a heavy-set man a fraction taller than Steve’s six-foot two, a far more formidable prospect than the diminutive DI Regan.
DI Hunt gave Regan a nod to send him on his way and Steve ran down the stairs.
Back in Psimon’s living room DI Hunt looked down through the large bay window, a mobile phone held to his ear.
‘Control, this is DI Hunt, at seventy-four, Freshfield Road, Altrincham.’
There was a pause.
‘Do you have any uniforms in the area? I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need them.’
Another pause.
‘Good,’ said DI Hunt. ‘Quick as you can, control.’
He hung up.
*
Lucifer watched as the angel appeared with one of the pawns. That would do. That left just one of the pawns between him and the witness. It was the bigger one of the two, although still far smaller than he, and besides, he held the lightning in his fist.
*
Steve killed the alarm while he was still on the driveway and after the briefest examination of the damage to his car he went straight for the driver’s door. The radiator grill was smashed but the bike should pull free easily enough. He climbed into the car but as he did so the sound of music and raucous laughter from the house next-door grew suddenly louder as the front door opened. One of the revellers stumbled outside, fumbling with his flies and heading towards a row of bushes. Steve started the car and put it into reverse.
*
Lucifer moved quickly round to the rear of the house; to the fire escape that climbed up the back of the building. He took the metal steps three at a time until he stood at the fire exit door. He tried his crowbar between the door and the frame but the lock was solid. He would need to give it some force; the glass would probably break. It could not be helped. Besides, the racket from the bacchanals next door might be enough to cover the sound.
Lucifer set the point of his crowbar and leaned his weight against it. The door resisted, he gave it a wrench. There was the sound of breaking glass and Lucifer passed within.
*
Standing on the pavement, DI Regan winced at the unpleasant sound of screeching metal as the bike was dragged for several feet before coming free.
‘What the fuck is going on here?’ cried a slurred voice from the driveway next-door.
DI Regan took out his ID and went to intercept the drunken biker who seemed to be sobering up rapidly as he surveyed the row of toppled bikes. He turned back to the house and before DI Regan could stop him he had called out in a night-splitting shout.
‘Hey guys… someone’s been fucking with the bikes.’
Bodies appeared in the doorway, faces peered out from windows and as Steve got out of the car the din of heavy metal music ceased.
*
DI Hunt turned away from the window.
Was that the sound of glass breaking?
He started to cross the room, drawing level with Psimon who was still sitting hunched in the chair.
A spasm of trepidation gripped the inspector’s bowels, a sudden feeling of fear not helped by Psimon’s chanting…
‘He’s coming… he’s coming… he’s coming…’
He stared at the doorway, straining for any further sounds, sounds of an intruder.
Nothing.
Still he had better take a look, just in case.
‘I’m just going to…’ he turned back to Psimon but Psimon was no longer in his chair.
DI Hunt jumped with fright. Psimon was standing beside him.
‘Jesus,’ said DI Hunt. ‘You frightened the shit out of me.’
But Psimon did not respond. He was looking straight through the inspector to the gaping doorway of his living room. Psimon had stopped his chanting but DI Hunt found the silence even more unnerving. Then Psimon spoke again.
‘He’s here.’
DI Hunt spun round as a huge shape loomed like a demon in the doorway. He reached for his mobile phone, turned to look for a weapon, another exit, anything…
Too late.
The vast demon ducked into the room, the black sheen of a pistol held level at his waist.
DI Hunt had chance for a single word…
‘Police,’ he gasped as the lightening struck him down.
*
Everything happened so quickly.
Steve got out of the car and started back towards the house. He did not want to leave Psimon for a moment longer than was necessary. But the bikers had different ideas. The one who had raised the alarm walked round DI Regan to confront Steve just as seven or eight more came striding down the drive.
‘What the hell!’ came the common response when they saw their bikes sprawling across the road.
‘Let’s just stay calm,’ said DI Regan but his voice lacked any real conviction.
The bikers began to converge on Steve and a police car appeared at the end of the road, its flashing blue lights illuminating the trees as it came quickly towards them.
‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’ asked the first biker stepping directly in front of Steve. ‘
‘Back inside,’ said Steve making an at
tempt to move past the biker but the biker would not let him pass.
The biker grabbed his arm and Steve punched him squarely on the nose. He slumped to his knees as the police car pulled up beside the line of fallen bikes. Steve braced himself as the rest of the bikers started towards him. DI Regan did his best to slow the advancing bikers but only succeeded in tackling one of them.
‘It’s him from yesterday,’ the man said as two uniformed officers leapt out of the police car and rushed to intervene. ‘The one with the smart mouth.’
A second police car turned into the road.
Fists, feet and angry faces lunged at Steve. He backed away parrying anything that came too close. All the while trying to back away towards the house.
‘You trashed our bikes,’ one of the bikers said.
‘If I’d hit them they would have fallen the other way, brainiac,’ said Steve.
The uniformed policemen were trying to get between Steve and the angry bikers. The adrenaline was rising; this was about to descend into a full-scale scrap. One of the bikers succeeded in grabbing hold of Steve. Steve grabbed the man’s hand, twisted his wrist and thrust him down to the floor.
‘That’s enough,’ said an authoritative voice and Steve found himself being restrained by one of the new policemen who had just arrived on the scene.
Chaos reigned, the tension mounted.
Steve had to get back to Psimon.
*
Lying on the floor, DI Hunt peered out through the pain in his skull. His entire body ached and he could barely move. His muscles kept twitching with uncontrollable spasms and his heart was racing fit to burst. He turned on his side, peering around the room. But there was no one there; not the man called Psimon nor the demon in the doorway. He fumbled for his mobile phone but could not extricate it from the folds of his jacket. He tried to call out but he could manage little more than a harsh whisper.
Regan was out front with the man, Steve Brennus. He had to warn them, he had to let them know. But the smallest movement was painful and he could feel that he was about to faint. He looked around the floor for some way of alerting them. As his vision started to fade his eyes settled on a mug of tea sitting on the floor beside a nearby seat.
DI Hunt reached out towards it. His trembling fist closed around it, the warm liquid sloshing over his hand. Then with one last desperate act he launched it towards the window.
*
The policeman’s forearm was across his throat and Steve’s right arm was twisted up behind his back. One of the bikers took advantage of Steve’s predicament and punched him in the face. Steve kicked the biker in the groin and the man went down with a grunt.
Scuffles broke out all along the pavement as the uniformed police officers struggled to control the escalating violence. More bikers were emerging from the house and Steve could hear the sound of approaching police sirens as additional units were called in to attend the scene.
Then the sudden sound of breaking glass made everyone look up. Something had smashed into the bay window of Psimon’s flat. Steve watched as a large shard of glass fell out of the frame and shattered noisily on the driveway.
‘Psimon!’
‘Just calm down,’ said the policeman holding Steve.
But there was no time for a rational explanation. Steve slammed his head back into the officer’s face and as the man relaxed his grip Steve broke away and sprinted up the drive.
DI Regan followed in his wake.
*
Lucifer was elated.
It had been easier than expected. The pawn had dropped into a twitching heap and the witness did not even struggle. He looked too frightened to call out, too frightened to move, too frightened to even think. He just stood there, staring at the doorway as if he had been expecting him.
Lucifer had stepped up to him and felled him with a slap, a massive slap with his massive hand. Then he had tied the witness, and gagged the witness, and slung him over his shoulder. He seemed to weigh nothing at all as Lucifer carried him down the fire escape and off into the night.
The chorus was singing in anticipation of a new confession.
The night’s devotions had only just begun.
*
Steve charged up the stairs to Psimon’s flat and turned in to the living room. DI Hunt was lying unconscious on the floor, two thin wires trailing from his chest.
Steve looked up at Psimon’s chair.
But the chair was empty.
Psimon was gone.
Chapter 29
Steve raced through to the back of the house, to the door at the head of the fire escape. The door hung open, the frame splintered, the glass broken. He darted through and stood at the top of the fire escape, staring down into the dark expanse of the garden.
Nothing.
‘God Psimon, I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.’
Steve was almost paralysed by the sense of guilt and failure.
‘Keep me safe,’ Psimon had said, and he had failed.
The killer had him.
With an effort Steve thrust aside these destructive thoughts. The killer could not have got far. He started down the fire escape and then he stopped. Something had caught his eye; something moving down the footpath leading from this street to the next; a large, bulky, unnatural shape. The shape was keeping to the shadows, moving quickly.
The killer.
Steve’s first instinct was to give chase but his military training demanded a rapid assessment before he moved. Steve followed the line of the killer’s flight to the car park beside the tennis courts. It was dark and empty but Steve could just make out the shape of a black van tucked away in one corner.
A black van.
Steve’s mind flashed back to earlier, when they had arrived back at the flat. A black van had sidled past them on the road. A black van had followed them from the convention.
Steve cursed his carelessness.
The killer was halfway down the passageway; he would be in the van before Steve reached him. Steve had to get back to his car, and quick.
Steve turned round and ran back through the flat. He met DI Regan in the hall.
‘What happened?’ asked the inspector looking through the doorway into the living room. ‘Where’s Psimon?’
The inspector made to stop him but Psimon could die at any time and Steve would brook no further delay. He winded the inspector with a punch to the stomach and continued on his way.
Back outside the house the inevitable brawl was in full swing. More police had arrived but still the bikers seemed in no mood to be placated. They scuffled and fought up and down the pavement and no one noticed when Steve emerged.
Steve ran straight to his car and then he cursed again. He had reversed right up to the inspectors’ car and now a quarter ton of Harley Davidson was sitting in his way. He was boxed in. He was just resolved to smash his way out when he heard a voice from beyond the inspectors’ car.
‘What’s going on here, man?’
Steve looked up to see another biker sitting astride an old Kawasaki z1300. The biker had pulled up behind the inspectors’ car, beyond the press of police cars and the glare of the flashing blue lights.
‘The brothers having a spot of bother with the filth?’ he asked Steve, turning off his engine and climbing off his bike.
Steve looked at the biker, the wheels of his mind turning.
The biker reached up to unclip the chinstrap of his open-faced helmet, the keys for his bike still clutched in his leather-clad fist. And written across the front of his helmet, in bold white letters, was the biker’s name.
SPIKE
Steve slipped his car keys into his pocket and started towards Spike who gave him a sudden wary look. But it was too late. Steve punched Spike hard in the face and as he dropped to the floor he snatched the keys from his limp fingers.
The sudden movement caught the attention of those still wrangling outside Psimon’s flat and Spike’s prostrate form drew concerned shouts from police and bikers alike.
Steve ignored them. He climbed onto Spike’s bike, turned the key, flicked out the peddle and kick-started the Kawasaki into life.
Then as bikers and police rushed towards him Steve revved the engine but he did not head off down the road. Going round the block would waste yet more precious time. Instead he spun the back wheel of the massive bike until he faced the pavement. Then he let out the clutch, mounted the pavement and tore off along the pedestrian footpath down which the killer had fled.
The footpath was narrow for such a big bike and Steve was grateful that no one else was using it tonight. He was not driving with the greatest of care. What he needed now was speed. He shot out into the car park and the bike wobbled dangerously as he skidded to a halt. But the car park was empty. There was no sign of the van.
Steve emerged onto the road running parallel with Psimon’s. Still nothing to be seen. Turning left would take the killer into a warren of cul-de-sacs and residential back streets. He would be heading for more open roads.
Steve turned right.
The bike growled up the quiet suburban road until Steve reached the T-junction with the high street. This was more brightly lit and there were shops and businesses along the way. He looked to the right where the long straight road headed back into Manchester. There was a fair bit of traffic on the road but still no sign of the van. He turned to the left. More traffic, a couple of black cabs and several buses and there, just disappearing around the distant bend, a single black van.
Steve gunned the bike and sped off in pursuit.
The lazy Sunday evening traffic frustrated Steve’s sense of urgency but he maintained a decent speed as he wove his way past the intervening cars. He was closing quickly on the van when a bus pulled right out in front of him. With a heartfelt expletive Steve hit the brakes hard. The bus had pulled out to get past a long row of parked cars and now it stopped in the middle of the road unable to pull into the kerb and the people waiting at the bus stop.
Steve made to go past but there was a pedestrian island in the middle of the road, with two brightly-lit bollards blocking his way, and the flow of oncoming traffic made it impossible to overtake on the other side of the road.
He fumed and swore and had no choice but to wait.
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