Perfect Intentions: Sometimes justice is above the law

by Leona Turner

  This must have taken him weeks to organise!

  The look on Adam’s face was priceless. Adam’s head had been taped to the back of the chair, making it impossible for him to move his head. As the masked figure moved in view of the camera, Tom’s view of Adam was blocked. As the figure moved back out of the line of sight revealing Adam, Tom took a sharp intake of breath; Adam’s eyeball was hanging by its nerves outside of its socket. After a moment Tom laughed out loud; the make-up was fantastic—it looked so real. Tom continued to watch in fascination as once more his view was blocked. Tom was stunned by the sheer inventiveness of his mate’s twisted mind. This time when the cloaked figure moved away, the other eye was gone. Adam’s face a grotesque mask of horror in the half-light. The masked tormentor started moving toward the camera, picking it up from its stand and bringing the focus in on the holes in Adam’s face that had once housed his eyes. Slowly, the camera panned down the agonised face, coming to a stop on Adam’s neck. A small blade suddenly appeared and viciously stabbed at his throat, sending a long stream of blood at the camera lens. Once the blood had ceased to flow, the video went black. After a few seconds, it seemed the reason for this temporary loss of vision had been to clean the screen. The camera had been put back in its original position, once more showing Adam, this time as a corpse. The focus started to shift; it was zooming in on a placard hanging around Adam’s mutilated neck.

  ‘This is what voyeurs get for watching things they shouldn’t.’

  Tom snorted into his coffee, quickly tapped out a brief message, and hit the send button.

  Standing in front of the late Adam Woodacre, the killer started to dismantle the tripod. After a few minutes Adams phone gave a beep to alert the owner to a text message. The noise was so loud in the sparse room that the phone was nearly dropped in shock. Opening the text the screen read: “Nice 1 M8, see ya at Andre’s at 8.”

  A reply certainly hadn’t been expected.

  The cloaked figure’s fingers moved deftly across the keypad, entering two letters and hitting send.

  “OK.”

  As Tom pulled into Andre’s car park, he was still going through Adam’s prank in his mind.

  He was a little thrown by the message he’d gotten back.

  “OK.”

  He’d just pulled off the stunt of the century, and all he had to say was “OK?”

  He was either modest or he was in a rush, and for a man with no need of a job, it was hardly likely to be the latter. And knowing Adam as he did, it wasn’t likely to be the former, either. Adam was notoriously arrogant, and was silently despised by all who surrounded him, even his mates—especially his mates, Tom admitted to himself.

  Parking up his 206 he got out, slamming the door behind him. He pointed the remote behind him, and as he crossed the car park he heard the reassuring sound of the doors locking. He always did it with the nonchalant look of a man that believed any female eyes in the area were trained on him.

  As soon as he got through the doors of Andre’s, he was hit by the familiar smell of beer and cheap perfume. He saw Paul and Stuart propping up the bar, halfway through their beers, and he shouted a greeting as he walked over to them.

  Stuart was busy trying to chat up the new barmaid, and by the looks of things, he wasn’t getting very far.

  “I told you, Stu, she’s in my bed tonight, you can have her tomorrow,” Tom announced to whoever was listening.

  “Nah. Thanks, mate, I don’t fancy your seconds.”

  The girl blushed furiously, shot a withering look at all three men, and flounced off to the other end of the bar.

  “Second thoughts, Stu? Maybe not ‘til after a few beers; she looks like a girl that could benefit from the old beer goggles.” Tom said this loudly in the direction of the barmaid.

  All three blokes fell about laughing.

  “Well, that’s buggered up the chance of getting served this evening.”

  Tom decided to spare the barmaid further blushes and changed the subject.

  “Enough of that shit—did you get that video from Adam?”

  “Sure did, that’s one twisted bastard. How long do you think it took to plan?” Stu was grinning at Tom.

  “Oh, I don’t know, you know what he’s like—he’s probably been planning it for months. He doesn’t have much else to do, does he?”

  “Tell you what, though, he doesn’t half know how to pick his timing. I was halfway through me breakfast. Where is he, anyway? He was supposed to be here at eight.”

  “Ah, it’s only ten past.”

  “Yeah, fucking hell, it’s a good job he doesn’t have to work; he wouldn’t last a week. Be late for his own funeral, he will.”

  As Tom finished speaking, the door at the end of the bar swung open and Alan, the bar manager, appeared.

  “Alright, Webber, thought I heard your dulcet tones.”

  Smiling broadly, Tom turned to him.

  “Alright, Al, think you might need some more bar staff.”

  “What you on about? I’ve only just taken Helen on. You’ve not been on at her already?”

  As he said this he looked up the bar to where a very pissed off Helen was standing.

  “For fuck’s sake, lads. Could I just be allowed to take on one new member of staff without you lot fucking her or fucking her off?”

  Tom laughed riotously.

  “But we’re your best customers, Al, mate. You’ve got to keep us happy, not the other way around.”

  Stu, who’d already necked his second beer, piped up.

  “Yeah—you hear that, love?” Directing this down the bar at the now quite worried Helen.

  “Anyway, Webber, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

  Tom, putting on a mock serious expression, leaned over the bar toward Alan and lightly covered his hand with his own.

  “Now, now, I like you, Al, mate, but we can only ever be friends.”

  His stooges once more laughed on cue.

  “Shut up, you tosspot. No, I’m on about using this place as a fucking post office.”

  Shaking off Tom’s hand, Alan crouched down and rustled about, trying to find something underneath the bar.

  There was a brief exclamation when he found what he’d been looking for. Emerging once more from behind the bar, he chucked a parcel not much larger than a ring box at Tom.

  “What’s all this about, eh? Having your mail delivered here—been kicked out again, have you?”

  It was a well known fact Tom couldn’t hold a flat for much longer than a month, or at least until the bills started to come in. He spent most of his wages the first week he got them. He liked to act like the big man at least once a month. Out every night buying rounds, doing coke, fixing up his car, anything to prove he could live like Adam, too. But when the person you aspire to be most like is a work shy, arrogant, unreliable megalomaniac, life can prove to be tough.

  Now, though, looking down at the package, he knew he hadn’t arranged for anything to be sent here. His two mates were looking on expectantly, waiting for him to open it. Moving swiftly, he tore open the package.

  It was a small box, obviously made for presenting jewellery. Opening the hinged lid, he heard a harsh intake of breath as his mates closed in around him to get a better look. Staring back at all three of them was an eyeball that looked worryingly real, the nerve endings fashioned into a loop, and through the loop a heavy gold chain was threaded.

  “Isn’t that Adam’s chain?” Stu asked.

  “Yep.” Tom’s mouth had dried out in a matter of seconds, and his voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “What about the thing on it?” Paul queried.

  Nobody answered.

  If this was a prank, it had gone way too far.

  If it wasn’t, it didn’t bear contemplating.

  As Tom, Stu, and Paul walked into the police station, they had the look of guilty men. They’d performed small criminal acts since childhood, taking drugs and committing petty acts of vandalism. Only Tom and A
dam had moved into the real crime area—date rape. Stu and Paul knew about their website, but what they didn’t know was that all the women had been drugged before hand. And Tom wasn’t about to tell them, or, for that matter, the police. Tom and Adam had always liked to think they were above the law. They’d often start fights just to get a lift home when they were too battered to find their cars. They wore their distrust of the police like a badge, as a status symbol, like they believed they were slightly dangerous men, living just outside the law. Strutting about like wild boys, sometimes donning a ‘mockney’ accent to add credibility, even though they’d never set a foot south of Cambridge.

  In reality they were typical middle class boys, and the closest they’d been to being gangsters was watching the Kray’s. Now, as they approached the police station, they were all apprehensive. They were known in town for being pranksters, and Tom thought they might not be taken seriously.

  All three of them had left Andre’s and gone around to Adam’s flat, and when they’d had no answer, they’d decided they ought to tell the police about their little gift.

  Well, Tom’s little gift, and if Tom were being honest with himself, it wasn’t fear for Adam’s safety that had found him at the police station tonight but fear for his own. The package had, after all, been addressed to him. Tom had already decided that it wasn’t a prank and that Adam had fallen foul of the local serial killer who’d been running the town recently. And, taking into account the message hanging round Adam’s neck, it had crossed Tom’s mind that he might be next on the killer’s hit list. Paul and Stu, who in any other circumstances would have laughed off such a supposition, seemed unusually concerned. With the recent spate of murders that had Manning’s Town gripped at the moment, even Paul and Stu were concerned. Even so, knowing something and speaking it out loud were two very different things. As Tom was still lost in thought, Paul’s voice echoed in the background.

  “What do we say when we go in?”

  “I don’t know, Paul,” a tired sounding Stu answered.

  “Well, shouldn’t we decide what we’re gonna say before we go in?”

  “What you mean, like, ‘Excuse me, Officer, me and me mates were down at the drinking pit tonight and we were given an eyeball on a chain.’ Something like that, you mean?”

  Hearing this, Tom piped up,

  “Look, we’re gonna have to tell them everything—about the video, the package, and the fact that we can’t find Adam.”

  “You tried him again on his mobile yet?”

  “Yeah, must be over ten times now. I’m telling ya, it ain’t switched off; the line just goes dead. If it were switched off, it’d either ring through to another number or to his voicemail.”

  As Stu finished speaking, the door to the reception area swung open and a young PC came to the desk. Spying the lads, who had a good five years on him, he put on his most official tone.

  “Evening, lads, and what can I do for you lot tonight?”

  Tom, already addled with fear and annoyed at being spoken to like a child, walked up to the counter. He opened the box in his hand and threw it across the desk. The young PC almost gagged at the contents, and then his expression changed from pompous to one of grave concern. Picking up the phone next to him, he rapidly punched in a number. Silence resounded in the room as the PC waited for the Holt to pick up the phone at their end. Finally the silence retreated.

  “Inspector Holt, sorry to ring you at home, but it seems there’s been a development.”

  Holt was sat in his living room at home staring out of the window lost in thought, when the phone had rang. The sudden noise had startled him.

  "No problem, Peter, what kind of development?”

  “Well, there’s three men at the station now…” Tom was gratified to hear they’d been promoted to men; at least this meant he was being taken seriously.

  The PC continued,

  “They’ve got an eyeball, sir.”

  On hearing that, Holt was suddenly fully alert.

  “Get it to Dennis Grant now. I’m coming in.”

  Holt hung up and the PC stared at the phone for a second then replaced it in its cradle. He looked back up at the three men.

  “DI Holt’s on his way. Do you want a coffee while you wait?”

  As Holt came through the doors, he saw the three men; they were dressed like rejects from a Hugo Boss advert. They were all looking reasonably sheepish, and Holt wondered for a brief second if he could trust a single word that came out of their mouths. He looked over at the PC behind the desk for confirmation that these were the men and the PC nodded his confirmation. Holt walked up to the desk.

  “Who are they? Where did they find it?”

  “There’s a Tom Webber, Stuart Harvey, and Paul McNamara. They said it’d been delivered to the bar they’re locals at—Andre’s on the high street.”

  “Right, and it was definitely a human eyeball?”

  “Definitely.”

  Holt turned to face the three men.

  “Right, chaps, I think we need a little chat. Who was it who received the item?”

  Tom looked up wearily and acknowledged himself with a nod.

  “Right, could you follow me through, please?”

  Tom got up and followed Holt. Holt held the door for Tom before addressing the other two.

  “I take it PC Bryant has taken all of your details. I’ll send some officers through in a minute who’ll take your statements.”

  As Holt and Tom entered the interview room, Tom felt the first wave of fear flood over him.

  Holt sat him down.

  “Would you like a coffee, tea…?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks. Look, am I going to need a solicitor or anything?”

  “Why would you need a solicitor? You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?”

  Holt wasn’t sure why he was being so antagonistic, but he didn’t feel sorry. Tom Webber had the look of someone who could stand to be taken down a peg or two.

  Tom was watching Holt uneasily.

  “No, but I thought if I was a suspect or something I might need a lawyer.”

  Holt stretched back in his chair, comfortable in his environment, which made Tom all the more uneasy. Noting this, Holt decided to allay his fears.

  “You’re not an anything at the moment, Mr Webber, this is just a chat, a chance for you to tell us the exact course of events that led up to you having a human eyeball in your possession.”

  As Holt finished speaking, the door to the interview room opened and a somewhat harassed looking DC Henson stuck his head round.

  “Sorry I’m late, sir.”

  “No problem Henson, just hurry up and sit down.” Despite Holt’s reply he was clearly annoyed that he had been kept waiting by his junior.

  Henson quickly manoeuvred himself around the interview table and sat just behind Holt. There was a moment of tension when Henson caught Tom’s eye.

  Holt couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it seemed there was something like glee coming off of Henson.

  “Ok, Mr Webber, this is my colleague DC Henson, he’ll be sitting in on this, if you don’t mind.”

  Tom nodded, but it was clear to all in the room that he was not pleased by this fact.

  “Could you start at the beginning, please?”

  “All right,” Tom started, taking a sideways glance at Henson before continuing.

  “About five o’clock this evening I got a video message from Adam’s phone— ” Holt interrupted him.

  “I take it Adam is the guy reportedly missing?”

  “Yeah, that’s right, Adam Woodacre. Well, I thought it was him sending me another video that he’d downloaded off the Internet.” Seeing the confusion on the older copper’s face, Tom stopped to attempt to explain.

  “Basically there’s a website people can post videos or pictures on—”

  “Are these images legal?” Holt queried.

  “Yeah, I’d have thought so, it’s a really popular website, if it was i
llegal surely it would have been closed down by now.”

  “Sadly it’s not always the case. Please continue,” Holt added.

  “Well, they show things like…” Tom was obviously struggling to find the words to describe, and Henson took the opportunity to jump in.

  “It’s a website for sickos and perverts. Sex, beatings, RTAs, even executions.”

  Holt swung round at this.

  “What?” For a second he forgot he was on duty.

  Henson started again.

  “Sick people send in clips of depravity, sexual and not. Isn’t that right, Tom?” he added, clearly enjoying the discomfiture of the man in front of him.

  Still painfully aware of the tension between the two young men, Holt spoke up.

  “Can I have a quick word with you outside, Henson?”

  “Yes, sir.” The two men left the room.

  Once out in the corridor and making sure that the door to the interview room was closed Holt rounded on Henson.

  “What the hell is going on in there?”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t play cute with me, kid, you two have got history.”

  “All right, we used to go to school together. Tom Webber, Adam Woodacre, and the rest used to make my life hell.”

  “Is that going to influence your work today, Henson? Because if it is, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to step down from this case.” The threat had the desired effect: Henson looked crestfallen.

  “No, of course it won’t, sir.”

  “Good, then let’s have you acting less of the school boy and more like the policeman you’re supposed to be. Right, now that’s out of the way, what’s this site all about? Please, God, tell me it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  “I’m afraid it is, sir. I went on it once—a mate told me about it and I didn’t believe him. I didn’t sleep right that night.”

  “Can’t anyone do anything about it?”