by Leona Turner
“People have tried to shut it down, but it just pops up again under a new name. That’s the problem with the net—you can’t police it.”
Holt grunted and opened the door to the interview room.
“Sir, one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“These guys are renowned for playing practical jokes, so—”
Holt cut him off.
“If I get one whiff of any such nonsense, I’ll charge them all with wasting police time.”
Hot had been opening the door to the interview room as he’d said this, and Tom, who had been waiting for them to come back in had heard it.
As Holt got inside, he sat back down opposite Tom, face set like stone.
“So you thought Adam was sending you one of these videos, and…”
Tom went on to relive the chain of events that had led to him being sat there.
Holt sat for a moment, staring at the young man in front of him with a combination of utter amazement and wonderment at what he’d just been told.
“You mean to tell me you watched Adam being tortured and didn’t think there was anything wrong with that?”
“I know what you’re thinking, but I thought it was a prank.”
“You watched as your supposed friend had his eyes gouged out and his throat slit and you though it was a prank?” Holt’s voice was getting dangerously low again.
“Yes. Listen, what could I have done anyway? This psycho’s got Adam’s phone, he knows my number—what are you gonna do about it?”
“We’re doing all we can at the minute, but I have to be honest with you, we always seem two steps behind this guy, and from what you’ve just told me, that’s not about to change anytime soon. The killer’s becoming more ambitious if the video you told me about is anything to go by.”
Tom sat for a minute and stared at Holt as if he’d just dropped out of his nose.
“You mean to tell me this guy’s going keep butchering people until he slips up—if he slips up? Can’t you trace Adam’s phone? Doesn’t it send out a signal?”
“Yes, we could do if it was switched on, but it doesn’t seem to be. I can only assume the killer’s either disposed of it or it’s been left with the corpse, and as you no longer have the video on your phone, we’re powerless to know where the body might be.”
“So you’re not going to do anything? I might have well not bothered coming in.”
“I’ve got people out looking for the body—derelict farms, industrial units. The killer seems to be favouring them so far, however… If there turns out to be no body and your little friend Adam turns up unscathed, it won’t be the killer you’ll have to look out for.”
Holding Holt’s gaze steadily, Tom answered back just as forcefully,
“If Adam turns up now, you can just wait your turn—trust me.”
“Ok, then lets’ go back to the person wearing the mask. What did it look like?”
“It looked like a mask; it was white, they were wearing a black coat—I don’t know, the picture was blurry. Funnily enough, I wasn’t concentrating on the mask; I was kind of fixated on something else.”
Holt, who’d had his elbow resting on the table, moved a weathered hand up to his face and rubbed at it in exasperation.
“Listen, Mr Webber, I’m sure you’re in shock, very tired, and probably confused with the situation, but you’ve got to start realising that you’re the closest we’ve got to an eyewitness. We would really appreciate if you could just try to remember anything about this person; the only other people who could have given us any kind of description of the killer are lying on slabs at the morgue. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Ok, ok, point taken. Thinking about it, he seemed quite small in stature—slim, you know. The mask looked like one of those ones you see at the theatre, you know? The smiling face and the crying face. That’s all I know.”
“Ok, Mr Webber, thank you for your time. If anything comes back to you, please feel free to get in touch.”
Chapter 27
Holt received the call at half past two in the morning. The body of Adam Woodacre had been found.
Not wanting to waste any time, he’d managed to pull additional resources and had had extra men working solidly for the last twenty-four hours scouring the surrounding countryside for derelict barns, warehouses, anything that would fit the killer’s profile. It had been a hunch of Holt’s that the body was out of town, and it turned out his instinct had been correct.
As Holt pulled on his clothes hurriedly, he realised he’d have to wear the same shirt he’d had on yesterday—not usually a problem, but he hadn’t gotten home until eleven, a little over three hours ago, and he’d left his clothes in a crumpled heap at the bottom of his bed. He hadn’t had much time recently to tackle the ever-growing pile of dirty clothes sitting in his laundry basket that was threatening to overspill—that was if his clothes didn’t walk out themselves first.
Wandering through into the bathroom, he started to lather up his face to shave. When he saw himself in the mirror, the reflection took his breath away. He looked easily ten years older than he was. Purple rings hollowed out his eyes, deep creases ran across his forehead, and his crumpled shirt finished the look off, giving him the appearance of a homeless man who hadn’t seen a bed or a sober day in years. Mentally promising himself a long trip abroad when this case was complete, he felt a sudden rush of depression, often connected with being overtired and the early hours. It suddenly dawned on him that he might never find the killer. As soon as the thought entered his head he dismissed it; it was too horrific to contemplate and he didn’t think his mind could such a thought at the moment, especially considering it was teetering on the brink most of the time these days.
Walking through to the kitchen, Holt switched on the kettle. He was in a rush, but he couldn’t leave the house without a cup of tea; it wouldn’t be fair to his colleagues. Ordinarily he would have had two, but there wasn’t time for that this morning. He wouldn’t have another cup until he got home again, whenever that would be. He never drank tea at work—mainly because it was never strong enough, but also because he associated tea with home.
When he’d made his tea, he walked through into his living room, and sitting down on the sofa he forced his mind back to the reason he was once more being deprived of sleep. Adam Woodacres body had been found, and from what he was able to garner from the somewhat overexcited PC at the other end of the line, he was exactly as Tom Webber had described him. His phone—the one that had been used to send the video clip had been found in his hand—was smashed beyond recognition. Although Holt had yet to see the scene, he could imagine it: the buttons of the phone hanging out, the screen cracked—he imagined the phone would illustrate a telecom version of its owner’s demise. The killer did seem to love making sick little points.
Holt’s eyes fell upon the crack in the curtains of his living room, remaining unfocused as his mind raced behind them. He’d always had a habit of doing that, almost like meditation. His mother had told him off for it as a boy.
“Don’t stare, its rude,” she’d say.
He tried once to explain he wasn’t looking at the person, but through them; his mind was elsewhere and he was never conscious of it, which meant, of course, that it was almost impossible to control, as a child anyway. As he became older, he would actively search out inanimate items to focus on.
Now, staring through the curtains, he pondered what the killer wanted.
Was it fame? Did they want to get caught? Most psychologists believed that serial killers possessed a desire to be caught so they could take full credit for their work, make it into one of the books on serial killers of which there were so many. A multimillion-pound industry, where books, films, and television series were always big hits.
Holt, on the other hand, preferred to believe that serial killers just became complacent, that they didn’t want to be caught, but ended up being victim to another human condition: being human. Nobody was i
nfallible.
Holt preferred his reasoning because, by his own admission, it allowed him to rest easier at night.
And what about Jack the Ripper? His true identity was never realised, and he went down as one of the most infamous killers in history. People liked the mystery.
It had always sickened Holt that Jack the Ripper’s name was still the topic of Hollywood films and numerous documentaries. Many people had become rich off of him, or, rather, his victims. The man himself was never brought to justice and most likely went on to live out his life in full while his victims lay in paupers’ graves outside of the city that were unmarked and uncared for, the forgotten characters in a twisted fairy tale that spanned a century.
Holt couldn’t get them justice, but he could claim justice for the families of this killer’s victims. Holt thought back to Mrs Abbott, Matt Reynolds’s girlfriend who’d gone into premature labour when she’d discovered her partner’s demise.
Holt screwed his eyes closed. Mrs Abbotts scream as she had identified her son had reached right through his consciousness and into his dreams. The feral scream of someone who knew they’d never see their loved ones again, never see them laugh or cry, never hold them ever again. Those screams never left a person; they served as a reminder that humans were just animals, when the part of the brain that repressed baser instincts and set the human race apart from their mammalian cousins shut down, unable to process the gravity of the situation they were dealing with. At that moment a human, if confronted with the perpetrator, would attack; the most rational of minds would struggle to control the consequences in that scenario. Sometimes Holt wished he could let the families loose on such a person for them to exact their own punishment.
Holt finished his tea and got up, switching off the lamp beside him and taking his cup through to the kitchen. He grabbed his jacket and left his apartment.
Holt arrived at the derelict barn at half past two. He had the windows of his car wound right down in a bid to stop his eyes slamming shut, the chill in the air befitting the circumstances. He brought his car to an abrupt halt. Getting out, he saw Henson scurrying toward him. Holt wondered briefly if the lad ever went home; he always seemed to be there to welcome him at the crime scenes.
Holt looked around him; this place was pretty much exactly the same as where the last two bodies had been found. How many more places were there like this? It was perfect for the killer—deserted, forgotten about—he must have known he wouldn’t be disturbed.
He would have to speak to the director of the estate again, which he didn’t relish the idea of, as the last time he’d had to they’d almost come to blows. The man was upper class, and clearly had been riled by the fact that the murders had taken place on his land—not for the reasons that most might’ve have expected, however. He was annoyed because it meant having to put the renovation work back several weeks and the rent would have to be dropped, as no one would want to live in a house where a murder had occurred.
Now Holt was going to have to go through it all again, although maybe he could get Henson to do it instead. Slightly assuaged by that thought, he walked up to Henson.
“Barn again?”
“Yes, sir.”
Holt walked straight past Henson toward the skeletal building at the far end of the yard.
He saw Dennis Grant’s van at the mouth of the building. He walked through the police cordon and made his way into the barn.
The forensic cameras were flashing further illuminating the scene. As Holt stared at the body of Adam Woodacre he was taken aback; it was almost identical to how he’d imagined it while sat in his living room less than thirty minutes ago.
At the Police station, several hours later Holt had assembled the whole team. He had called the meeting at eight o’clock, which had meant officers who had been helping in the search for Adam Woodacre had been pulled back in. They were all stood staring at him with bloodshot eyes.
“So we’ve got five bodies, no leads, and a town on the brink of insanity. Not that the papers are helping.”
Holt paused his address, looking for Henson. As his eyes rested on him, he continued,
“Any news on who tipped off the press yet, Henson?”
“Afraid not, sir, you know what they’re like.”
“Well, that’s not bloody good enough. I want a name by midday, else I’m going down to their offices myself.”
“Yes, sir.” The tension in Henson’s voice was back.
Holt’s audience was watching him warily, wondering where his next attack would be aimed.
They were all exhausted and as frustrated as Holt at the unfurling nightmare happening within their small community. But they were also tired, hungry, and could have done without the verbal battery.
Looking out across the drawn faces of these men and women, Holt suddenly felt a stab of shame; they were all doing their best, but he felt so utterly helpless.
“Listen, I know you’re all shattered and I appreciate that a lot of you haven’t slept properly in the last twenty-four hours, but the fact remains that there’s a lunatic out there who isn’t about to stop. Each murder becomes more daring. This last murder was even sent to the victim’s friends’ mobiles. The killer is making a statement, daring us to catch him, while all the time laughing at us. I want everyone’s full cooperation on this case. I don’t want any more ‘leaks’ to the press. Is that understood?”
Holt took a minute to look round at the stony expressions on the faces in front of him and felt his cheeks redden with guilt. He couldn’t bring himself to believe any of these officers would jeopardise the case voluntarily—most had as much invested in it as he did. Either someone had let something slip by accident, or—what Holt thought to be more likely—it was the killer himself who had done it, to add still more pressure to the underfunded police force. Holt knew if the killer wasn’t caught soon his people would start to break, and that was a scenario he really didn’t want to contemplate.
Chapter 28
Clare had started the evening with Hannah in a small quiet bar. They had decided between them that they had needed to get out, even if it was just for a few hours. They both realised they were in danger of becoming recluses and to regain control of their lives they’d have to start reclaiming it a bit at a time. However, after a few Bacardis, they felt almost back to normal and were becoming louder.
“It’s great to be out again.”
“You’re not kidding, we were becoming hermits.”
“Listen, Clare, I’m going to have to go soon, my mum’s coming round early tomorrow. She’s decided there’s something wrong with me and is using it as an excuse to come round and take control of my life again.” Hannah rolled her eyes.
“So I take it you want to go home early to do a clean up?”
“Got it in one. This is the woman who checks dust on skirting boards; she’ll have the skin off my back if she sees the state of my kitchen at the moment.”
Clare burst out laughing and nodded her acknowledgement. Her flat had become an absolute mess of late; with her laboured attempts at study and her need for a drink every day, housework had finally filtered through to the bottom of her priorities pile.
“Fair enough. Well, give me a ring tomorrow once you’ve got rid of your mum.”
“Will do. Are you staying?”
Hannah was putting her jacket on.
“Yeah, I might have one more drink. My mum and dad said they’d probably be coming in here tonight and it’d be nice to see them.”
“Lucky you, I wish I could say that about my parents.”
Clare smiled at her. Hannah stopped for a moment before heading to the door.
“Are you sure you’re going to be ok here on your own?”
“I’ll be fine, I’m only five minutes from home.”
“Ok then, hon, speak to you tomorrow.”
“Take care.”
Hannah had left twenty minutes ago and Clare had finished her drink. She did another cursory scan of the bar. It di
dn’t look like her parents were coming out after all. Although the bar was busy, she didn’t feel threatened at all. The average age of the customers looked to be around fifty-five. All had come out to enjoy a sociable evening with their friends, family, or colleagues. This would have been exactly the type of place she and Hannah would have avoided at all costs a few months ago, but now it was what they had both needed—a gentle step back into the social real world. She got up to get her coat.
Dean had been watching Clare from the other side of the bar for the last half an hour. He had finally admitted to himself earlier that day that he still loved her and had tidied himself up, originally planning to go and see her at her place. But when he’d seen her and her friend Hannah leaving the flat, he’d decided to follow them instead. Now it looked as if his patience might be about to pay off.
“Clare?”
Clare’s head spun round. She’d know that voice anywhere: the man who’d been so kind as to re-spray her car free of charge. He sounded genuinely pleased to see her.
“Dean?”
He was moving toward her from the other end of the bar. How was she supposed to react? She had often imagined how she would react when she bumped into him again. She hoped she looked nice, despite the fact that she knew she shouldn’t care. A quick glance in the mirror behind the bar put that argument on ice: her eyes looked red, her face puffy, and she’d managed to spill some of her drink down her top not five minutes before. A large part of her wanted to tell him to fuck off, but the small part of her that was still withstanding the alcohol realised it might be nice to talk to someone.
As Dean got closer, she cringed inwardly; he looked great. She was ashamed to admit it to herself, but she still wanted him.
“Look, Clare, I’m sorry about your car, it’s just— ”Dean was looking sheepish.
“Look, just forget it. We’ve both been going through a rough time. Let’s just leave that for now. You look well.”
It was a statement of fact, but she hoped it didn’t sound so.
