Perfect Intentions: Sometimes justice is above the law

by Leona Turner

  “You have until the alarm sounds to escape.”

  Matt slumped onto the floor, painfully aware of the fact that his ankles could not even begin to support his weight. He glanced at his attacker, and upon doing so felt another surge of adrenaline pump through his body. He felt terror, but most of all anger. He was dully aware that at some point he must have soiled himself, as his trousers were wet and heavy, which only incensed his hatred. He slowly started to try and lean his weight forward onto his arms and upper torso and started dragging himself toward the hallway, the front door, and what he hoped would soon be safety.

  His progress was painfully slow, but upon inspecting of the clock again he believed he could make it. His attacker was now sitting serenely on the opposite side of the room watching him. His breathing was coming in laboured gasps and his lower legs were screaming at him, but he continued to drag himself slowly across the floor. Again he was aware of the hard floor; it had become friendly once more. It was now aiding his escape, easing him across the floor, lubricated by his own blood.

  Almost in the hallway now, there are only five feet between him and the front door—he was actually going to make it. From his position in the hall he could no longer see the clock, but assumed he must have about two minutes left. He felt relief that his door didn’t have a Yale lock. Spurred on by the thought of imminent escape, he put in extra effort and suddenly found himself at the front door. Supporting himself on his right arm, he reached up with his left and found his mark.

  From the shadows in the lounge, the tormentor had watched Matt’s progress with satisfied amusement. The vanity of the human condition was amazing. People honestly believed it could never happen to them; that these atrocities they heard about every day and didn’t spare so much as a second’s thought for couldn’t ever happen to them, that they were somehow out of the circle. So really, the tormentor reasoned, that this was a public service, bringing people back in, making life real again. Because the cosseted world they’d surrounded themselves with had made them numb, numb to the pain they inflicted without empathy.

  The intruder was brought back to Earth with the pulling of the door handle, back to the task at hand.

  Matt pulled at the door handle a second time, nothing. It wasn’t budging. It was locked. The realisation took exactly thirty seconds to filter through his conscious mind. Trapped.

  “What’s up, Matt? Door’s locked? If only you’d thought to pick up your keys.” Once more the intruder’s voice was soft, almost lyrical, then it changed again, becoming hard and sharp, like a razor striking his face.

  “But that’s the problem with people like you, Matt, isn’t it? You don’t think, you just do, and to hell with the consequences. Well, finally the consequences of your actions have caught up with you.”

  Matt hadn’t stopped to think that it would make absolutely no sense for his captor to release him, but now he knew for sure he was looking at his last day on this Earth. Surprisingly, he felt calmness spread through his body as he resigned himself to his fate. He hoped it would be quick.

  With that the intruder came striding toward him, electric drill in hand and a maniacal glint in his eye.

  Once again the darkness came, and this time would be the last.

  Chapter 4

  At her front door, Clare was struggling to find her keys, rifling through the bottom of her bag. She heard the familiar jingling and made a grab, extracting her keys and opening the door.

  Walking through her apartment, she flung her bags down on the sofa and went through to the kitchen to switch the kettle on.

  It was only half past three; she had plenty of time before Dean arrived. She could have a cup of tea while waiting for the bath to run. Going through to the bathroom, she turned the taps on full. On her way back to retrieve her shopping bags she’s interrupted by a banging at the door. Realising it could be Hannah she hurriedly stuffs the bags behind the sofa. If it was Hannah, she’d want to know why she’d been spending money on non-essentials when she consistently pleaded poverty. As she opened the front door, she realised she had been quite right to hide the bags.

  “Hi hon, what brings you round?”

  Hannah ignored the question, smiled a greeting, and strolled straight into the kitchen.

  “Oh great, I’ll have a cup, too, if you’re making one.”

  With a sigh, Clare closed the door and followed Hannah back through.

  Hannah had already got two cups out and was generously spooning sugar into one of them.

  “So what are you up to this evening?”

  “Oh, nothing much. I just thought I’d have a quiet night in, have a bath.”

  “Really? So why have you been out buying new clothes, then?”

  “What? How did you know that?”

  “I saw you in town earlier—you walked straight past me. Something on your mind?”

  “No.”

  “Can I see what you bought?”

  “Why?”

  “Bloody hell, Clare, it’s a simple enough question. Unless…” Hannah paused. A look of confusion being replaced with a look of amused shock.

  “You’re going on a date, aren’t you?”

  “Crying out loud, Hannah.”

  “You are, aren’t you? Why didn’t you say something before? I’d have come shopping with you; we could all go out together. I’m meeting up with Mike tonight.”

  “And this is exactly why I didn’t say anything to you. I knew as soon as you knew you’d start trying to organise me. It’s not serious.”

  “Thank you very much. Well, what’s he like? Do I know him—does he live round here?”

  “No, you don’t know him, and yes, he lives quite close.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Before I tell you, Hannah, you have to promise not to breathe a word of this to anyone.”

  “Brownie’s honour.”

  “It’s Dean Matthews.”

  “Dean Matthews? Why do I know that name?”

  “Because he’s Alice Matthews’s brother.”

  “What, little Alice? Works in the store at the weekend? Jesus, Clare, how old is he? This is legal, isn’t it?”

  “I knew you’d react like this. He’s nineteen, if you must know, and I’ve checked, it’s perfectly legal, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Seriously, Clare, do you really think this is a good idea?”

  “Well, I won’t know ‘til I’ve tried.”

  “Ok, well, I’ll get out of your way then.” Hannah finishing her tea put the cup in the sink and went to leave. Stopping briefly, she turned to Clare

  “A word of advice before I leave.”

  Clare sighed.

  “What?”

  “Unless you’re planning an indoor water feature, I’d turn the bath taps off if I were you.”

  Clare fled toward the bathroom.

  Hannah shook her head and let herself out.

  Luckily Clare made it to the bath in time, switching the taps off. She returned to say goodbye to Hannah, and was rewarded with an empty room. Grabbing the bags back out of their hiding place, she took them through into the bedroom, emptying the contents onto her bed and beginning to sort through them.

  Three hours and numerous clothes changes later Clare was ready. She still had some time to kill, so she went back through into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. By the time eight o’clock arrived, she was already pretty merry. Grabbing her bag, she went down to the car park to wait for Dean.

  He was already waiting by the time she got there.

  “You scrub up well,” Clare said from across the car park.

  “Yeah, well, you’re not too bad yourself.”

  “Thanks. Right, where are we off to, then?”

  “Well, I was thinking the Rose and Crown—it shouldn’t be too busy and it’s not too far to walk.”

  “Fair enough.”

  As Dean and Clare made their way into the Rose and Crown Dean asked her what she was drinking and Cla
re went off to find them a table. The pub was busy, but after a few moments she was able to find a table near the door. As Dean fought his way to the table with the drinks in hand she smiled at him.

  Dean sat down and passed her her drink

  “Thanks. So good day?”

  “Not bad, got to help a damsel in distress this morning.”

  “Really? Well aren’t you the knight in shining armour then?”

  “I do my best. Anyway, do you come here often?”

  “Not really, I’ve been quite busy recently. My mates always trying to get me to go out.”

  “So should I be feeling honoured that you agreed to come out with me tonight?”

  “Yes I suppose you should really.” She said, smiling at him.

  After two hours Dean and Clare decided to leave, Dean had taken it upon himself to walk her home. Clare located her keys and opened the door, gesturing for Dean to go in first. Dean did as he was bid and proceeded to wait for Clare to close the door, before going further into the apartment. He had figured she’d had a few drinks before they met up and he had been right: she’d had three glasses of wine and was now steaming. Now, as he sat on the sofa, he could hear her stumbling around in the kitchen.

  “Do you need any help?”

  “No thanks, I have everything under control.” Just as she’d finished speaking, there was a crash.

  “You don’t take sugar, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” She was laughing now, and he got up to investigate.

  Clare was sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by glass and sugar. She looked up at him.

  “Oops.”

  Looking at her hands, he noticed she’d obviously tried to clean the glass up and had cut herself. He strode over to her and helped her up, then steered her toward to the sink. He turned on the water, holding her hands under the faucets as he did. As he was cleaning the blood off of her she looked up at him

  “I don’t think you’ll need stitches. Have you got a first aid box anywhere?”

  “Plasters and savlon?”

  “Yeah, that’ll do.”

  “Over there, third drawer down.”

  Dean left her standing at the sink as he went over to the drawers. As he moved around, he noticed her starting to fall, and he rushed over, catching her and leaning her back up against the sink.

  “Can you be trusted to stay there for just a minute?”

  Clare looked up at him and smiled her affirmative.

  After retrieving the required items, he moved back toward her again.

  Working quickly, he dried her cuts smeared on the savlon and applied the plasters. Picking her up, he took her through into her bedroom and laid her down on the bed. She opened her eyes briefly.

  “Blimey, you don’t hang around, do you?”

  “Funny fucker, just get some sleep.”

  He removed her shoes, and after deciding against undressing her, he pulled the duvet over her and quietly left the room.

  He went back into the living room and sat back down on the sofa. Should he stay? She clearly wasn’t in any fit state to be on her own tonight. He took his shoes off and lay back down on the sofa.

  In the darkness of her bedroom Clare’s eyes snapped open. She made a grab for her phone. Three o’clock. She cast her mind back to the evening before.

  Her head started to scream at her, and when she rubbed her head with her hands, she felt something on them. Switching her bedside light on she saw her hands were covered in plasters and then pulling the covers back, she was relieved to find herself still fully dressed

  She decided to go and get some water from the kitchen and as she opened the fridge door a snippet of memory came back to her: she’d been making coffee, something had happened. She looked down at her hands once more and saw that the sugar jar was missing; she could make a guess as to what had happened. Swallowing a couple of aspirin, she decided to watch some TV as the pills took effect. As she opened her living room and switched the light on, she let out a quiet exclamation. There, spread on her sofa, was an unconscious Dean. The light had woken him and he stirred, and wiping the sleep from his eyes, turned to look at her.

  “Oh, you’re up and about again, are you?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, it didn’t feel right leaving you here on your own.”

  “Umm, right, thanks, and sorry about last night.”

  “It’s fine. You’re quite amusing steaming drunk.”

  “Oh God, what did I do?”

  “Well, you started with a little bit of karaoke— "

  “I didn‘t know they had a karaoke machine”

  “They don’t.”

  Clare started to redden as Dean continued.

  “You followed up the Rocky Horror medley with a little dancing…on the table.”

  “I didn’t? I’m amazed you’re still here. I’m so sorry. I don’t suppose you’ll want to go out again.”

  “Why not? You’re a dream date.”

  Clare looked at him, bemused.

  “What are you on about?”

  “I got you into bed on the first date and I ended the evening better off than when I started it.”

  Clare looked confused.

  “Yeah, your table top exploits earned me a few quid.” His lopsided grin was back, and Clare had to laugh.

  “You bastard.” Smiling, Clare picked up a cushion and threw it at him.

  Chapter 5

  When the news of the second body came through to the station, Holt hadn’t been surprised. Judging by what he had seen at the first crime scene, their perpetrator was organised and meticulous. Having both the bodies discovered within hours of each other showed a level of control that was making Holt uncomfortable, and he knew he would need to bring in outside help. The victim’s heavily pregnant girlfriend had discovered the body. She’d had to be taken straight to hospital after the shock had brought her labour on. Luckily she’d gone on to have a healthy baby boy; unfortunately, it would also mean that one day she’d have to explain to her son the demise of his father and the fact that his birthday fell on the same date. Already the reach of these crimes was moving into the next generation. There hadn’t been a murder in the town in over thirty years, and the last one had been a mugging that had gotten out of hand. These crimes weren’t opportunistic.

  For the first time in his career, DI Holt was scared. He had no idea how to deal with the nightmare unfurling before him. Now that he had made the decision to go and see this Loretta Armstrong he felt a little calmer, despite the knowledge that she had been instrumental to his own divorce. He thought about the first time he’d heard her name; it had been shortly before his wife had finally walked out on him. His wife Helen; had been going to see Loretta to talk through some ‘personal issues’ she’d been having at the time. As it had turned out these ‘personal issues’ had been that she’d had enough of her marriage. Holt let out a derisory snort as he cast his mind back to the final conversation he’d had with his then wife. She’d had the affront to accuse him of being ‘emotionally retarded’. When she’d said it to him he’d laughed in her face, before reminding her it had been she who had sought out the advice of a perfect stranger to discuss the intricacies of their marriage. With her doctorate, she could—and probably would—make him feel very nervous. But he knew he’d need a head start on this case, and maybe she could shed some light on the type of person they were looking for. And going by what he’d witnessed in the last twenty-four hours, it wasn’t a rational mind he was looking for. He leant forward, cradling his head in his hands, and attempted to rub the sleep away from his eyes and force his mind to wake again. He stared back down at the photos in front of him. He just hoped Dr. Armstrong was as good as her reputation suggested, because he had a feeling he was going to need all the additional help he could get.

  Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, he called for DS Henson, and the two men headed for the car park.

  Holt pulled the ca
r into the car park outside Dr. Armstrong’s office and the two men got out. Harry Henson was practically giddy. His first real murder case, and he had not just one, but two mutilated bodies.

  Not so much bullied as ignored by fellow classmates growing up, his choice of job ensured that people would take him seriously, and, more importantly, would get him noticed. Whereas most of his peers were respected within the community, Henson had systematically put everyone’s back up. Holt had only agreed to bringing Henson in on the case due to Henson’s persistent nagging. He had an almost desperate need to be constantly reassured and patted on the head, which made him nauseating in the extreme. That, coupled with the fact that he would stitch any one up in an effort to make himself look better, ensured that no one else would work with him.

  Harry had subscribed to the idea a long time ago that to appear better to others, the quickest and often simplest route was to make everyone else look worse by comparison.

  This case was a defining moment in his career. At the age of thirty he was still young, and here he was, accompanying DI Holt on what was potentially the biggest murder case in recent history.

  Detective Inspector Jimmy Holt was the antithesis of Harry; he was a slightly rotund man with greying hair and a ruddy face. He had the look of a weatherworn man, and was well liked at his station. He had also been blessed with the patience of a saint and, as such, had been prepared to bring the young DC Henson in on this case with him. Painfully aware of how much the other officers disliked the young lad, he had seen fit to try and let him prove himself to his peers. He had not foreseen how trying that might be on a potentially long case. He had hoped the brutality of the murders might have sobered the young DC to the horrors that policing could hold, but unfortunately it had just seemed to fan the flames. So now, just forty-eight hours into the investigation, the DI was seriously starting to regret his decision to bring him in on the case. He was practically preening himself for the cameras; a few of his officers had already been snickering about how his face seemed to be getting more tanned by the day.