The media frenzy that followed the discovery of a conspiracy amongst the Chiefs of the five biggest forces outside the Met had lasted for weeks, not to mention the accompanying Parliamentary hoo-hah. According to a disaffected, whistle-blowing Chief Superintendent, The Black Quintet, as they were quickly dubbed, had been meeting in secret for years. By pulling strings within ACPO, as it was back then, as well as Whitehall and elsewhere, they made sure the service presented a united front in the face of the various Police Reforms successive governments wanted to force through.
Jackson saw the link. ‘The Home Office was trying to use the scandal to drive through force amalgamations.’
‘Right. But the Hart case was being championed as the counter-argument by a lot of police spokes-persons. Their line was that Hart would never have been caught if a local detective, working for a local force, hadn’t been able to use his initiative.’
‘The ‘local detective’ being you.’
‘Right.’
‘And they used my feature to do it. The perfect example of local policing coming up trumps.’
Carver pointed a finger.
‘Fuck me. How did I miss this?’
‘Good question.’
Jackson looked at him for a long time. ‘Jamie, I’m sorry, I never-’
‘Forget it. It’s in the past.’
‘Yes, but-’
Carver gave him the look again. ‘I said, ‘forget it’.’
Jackson fell silent. Carver waited, finishing his drink, giving him time. Eventually the man across the table picked up the thread.
‘It was in their interests to forget that Hart might have had an accomplice.’ Carver stayed silent. ‘It wouldn’t have been such a success story. In fact, some might have said the opposite. That it was a failure, because there’s still a killer out there, waiting to be caught.’
‘Some might say that.’ Carver said.
‘I’m beginning to understand why you might not have been returning my calls-’
About bloody time.
Jackson became animated. ‘I’ve got it.’
Carver looked up.
‘These latest killings-’
‘What about them?’
‘You think they’re the work of Hart’s accomplice.’
Carver shook his head. ‘But don’t think I haven’t considered it. We’ve looked at it every which way. Profiled them all, up, down, inside-out. There’s nothing about the Worshipper series that matches what Hart was doing in any way.’
‘So you think it’s an entirely separate series?’
‘That’s how we’re seeing it.’
Jackson seemed disappointed.
‘So where is he now?’
‘Who?’
‘Hart’s accomplice. What’s he doing, right now?’
Carver drained the rest of his pint. ‘I haven’t a clue. But he’ll come. One day.’
'How so?'
'Someone'll give him up. Or he'll come forward and confess his sins. Or he'll get picked up on something else and we'll make the connection. All I know is, he'll come. I'm sure of it.'
Jackson looked doubtful, but said nothing.
For several minutes neither man spoke. Carver waited.
Eventually Jackson said, ‘So how much of this can I use?’
‘None of it.’
‘WHAT?’
‘Like I said. Off the record.’
Come on Jamie. There’s got to be some angle I can use.’
‘If there is, I can’t give it to you. Besides, you said you just wanted to do a follow-up piece on me?’
‘I do, but-’
‘In which case the story is I’ve recovered from it all, moved on and now I’m involved in a new investigation.’
‘Involving a killer who’s as twisted, if not more so, than Hart himself.’
‘That’s a story isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but not as-’
‘-Good as the one you’d like to tell.’
‘Right.’
Carver stood up. ‘Life’s a bitch-’
Jackson gave a wry smile. ‘Then you die.’
They finished their drinks.
Eventually Jackson rose, held out a hand. ‘Thanks for seeing me.’
Carver hesitated before taking it. It was as dry as he remembered. ‘Like I said, it wasn’t my idea.’
‘Even so. Can we meet again? If I can come up with an angle, I mean? One that’s acceptable to you?'
Carver thought on it. ‘Maybe.’ He left Jackson standing by the table.
Walking towards his car his thought was, Maybe he’s not that sharp after all.
Then, behind, he heard, ‘JAMIE.’
He turned. Jackson was jogging towards him, animated again. Spoke too soon.
‘These spokespersons you mentioned. The ones who wanted to make a big thing out of the Hart case.’
‘What about them?’
They included your Chief Constable at the time.’
‘So?’
‘He was your father.’
Chapter 27
A break in the clouds allowed the full moon’s silvery light to fall through the open window and onto the bed where the couple lay, entwined in each other’s arms. At that moment the man cupped the woman’s jaw in the cleave between fingers and thumb and they kissed, deeply. Turning the back of his hand to her neck, he slid it down, over skin that was slick with sweat, over her breasts, her stomach then onto her thighs, before doubling back to rest in the dampness between her legs. He nuzzled into her neck, tasting the bitter traces of her musky fragrance, and drawing from her purrs of pleasure. After a few seconds, she slipped out from under him, and turned him over so their positions were reversed. From there she began to move down his body, planting kisses on his neck, chest, stomach, and onwards. As she worked her way down, her flaming tresses trailed in her wake and he gathered them to his face, luxuriating in their bouquet. A moment later urgent fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him down to meet her hungry mouth once more.
For hours it seemed, they had explored each other this way, delving, caressing, tasting, as their mutual rhythm built to the point where each would bestow on the other the release they craved. As the man raised himself onto an elbow, another burst of moonlight revealed the spill of her hair across the bed, the graceful curve of her neck and shoulders. The light waned again but the image stayed, spurring him to even greater efforts.
Suddenly, the hoot of an owl drew his eye to the open window. A shape, indistinct and fleeting, but vaguely human flashed across his line of vision. For a moment he was disoriented. He cast his gaze about but detected no movement other than the lace curtains billowing in the breeze, the moon-shadow of their lovemaking, projected onto the wall next to the bed. He looked back at the window, where the branches of a tall beech tree swayed in the wind. In the dark they could easily be mistaken for the arms of a human figure, waving. He relaxed. Nothing to be alarmed about. He turned back to her, ready to lose himself once more. But something had changed.
Where before she had been naked, her sweat mingling with his, now she was wearing hose and stiff lingerie. Previously her neck had been bare, but now it bore a length of ribbon, the ends of which lay in his hands. Instead of her arms being around his neck, she was spread-eagled beneath him, wrists and ankles anchored by some unknown means to the bed’s corners. His mind raced to make sense of what was happening. To his horror, he became aware of a dark shape at the head of the bed, looming over them. Paralysed with fear, he could neither speak nor move, as the intruder clamped its hands about his wrists and began to draw them apart, taking up the slack in the ribbon so it tightened about her throat. He tried to let go, but for some reason his fingers wouldn’t respond, nor could he resist.
Choking noises came from her throat and her body bucked and strained beneath him as she pleaded through gritted teeth. 'STOP. Please, YOU’RE HURTING ME.’
He tried to resist the pressure on his wrists, but his attempts seemed puny, pathetic. And though the figur
e’s face was shrouded in darkness, he knew that were it not, he would see a mocking smile. The woman’s face creased in pain and she gasped, desperately, for air. But the crushing ribbon denied her efforts. Bit-by-bit, her struggles weakened. Her body arched upwards in one last, gasping spasm that lifted them both into the air. Then she collapsed to lie still, lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling. Hands suddenly free again, he shook her, vigorously, but she didn’t respond. Unable to comprehend what had happened he looked up. The figure was gone. He turned back to her and as he realised what he had done, anguish and horror overtook him and he cried out into the darkness.
'Nooo!’
A voice called out, ‘JAMIE. JAMIE !’
Her voice. But it couldn’t be. She was dead. He cried out again.
'NOOO.’
The voice came again, urgent now, frightened. 'JAMIE, What is it? JAMIE.'
Then he was sitting up, shaking, Rosanna beside him, cradling his face, calling to him.
'Wake up Jamie. You are dreaming.'
He turned to her, gasping. 'Rosanna? Oh Christ, Rosanna.' He fell into her arms.
She pulled him to her. 'It’s alright. I am here. Your Rosanna is here. Hush my love.'
As his breathing steadied, she began to croon a gentle, Fado lullaby. Bit by bit, he relaxed, sinking into her, letting her voice lead him towards a new sleep, one he hoped would take him far from the terror that had besieged him. And as the darkness reclaimed him, the last thing Carver saw was the soft skin over her larynx vibrating to the gentle rhythm of the Fado as it banished - for the time being at least - Edmund Hart’s mocking grin.
PART II
Like Minds
Chapter 28
The Shropshire Union Canal winds its way through Chester’s City Centre. The “No12” restaurant stands on its North Bank, close to Northgate Locks. A striking, red-brick building, it was once the city’s main cotton-trading warehouse. Nowadays it is regarded as one of Chester’s trendier eating houses. Inside, the varnished-wood and brass ‘Upper Saloon’ hangs, suspended above the circular dining floor. The alcoves dotted around the outer walls, which were once trading booths, are now cosy, semi-private dining areas, popular with lovers, romantics, and those who prefer that their conversations remain private. In one of the booths, a man and woman were sitting back in their chairs, wine glasses in hand, as the waiting staff finished clearing away their dinner plates.
From his vantage point across the room, Carver was thinking that Megan Crane looked as alluring as he’d seen her. The sheer black dress, split to the thigh had been drawing glances all evening. The bling adorning her wrists, ears and throat lent her more than a hint of Old-World Glamour. Earlier, her appearance at the top of the stairs leading to the Saloon Bar had caused a noticeable lull in conversations, and heads turned as she cast about, seeking out her date for the evening. Several pairs of eyes followed as she strode, confidently and purposefully, across to a stocky, middle-aged man sitting at the end of the bar. Thrusting out a hand she’d said, ‘You must be Maurice. I’m Megan. Thrilled to meet you. I’ll have a Martini.’
Seconds before her dramatic appearance, Maurice Clarke had been about to despatch his third whiskey since he’d arrived fifteen minutes early for his rendezvous with the woman with whom he hoped to - What, Carver thought? Enter into a sub-dom relationship? Enjoy an occasional rendezvous? Set up for a kill?
Whichever it was, Maurice Clarke looked unprepared for the vision that came striding towards him. And as she offered him her hand a look of something close to panic seemed to spread across his features, as if suddenly realising that the woman with whom he had exchanged letters might be way out of his league.
Not that Megan Crane gave any sign that was her view. In fact, judging by her smiles, tactile behaviour and all round enthusiasm, an onlooker could be forgiven for thinking that, the balding, overweight man in the plain grey suit was some Hollywood heart-throb in disguise.
At that time, Carver and Jess were sitting on the sofa opposite, where they’d settled after following Clarke up to the bar. From there they’d watched him down two whiskeys before ordering a third. Witnessing Clarke’s discomfort following her very public arrival, Carver turned a wry smile on Jess. Her response was to carry on sucking on the straw embedded in the pink, non-alcoholic concoction she’d ordered, and let her face show her feelings.
Within twenty-four hours of commencing background on Clarke, Jess had declared herself convinced that he was not, could not, be their man. A travelling Operations Manager for a water-utility company, she couldn’t imagine for a second that he was the sort Megan Crane - or any of the victims - would entertain as a prospective play-partner. Nor did he come close to fitting the profiles - psychological, physical, behavioural - from Cleeves and his ilk. As Jess kept pointing out during the period leading up to their meeting, it rendered the whole enterprise a waste of time. For his part, Carver wasn't so sure. Besides, along with the rendezvous they'd observed the week before - a university lecturer by the name of Greg Trueman - it provided a benchmark that could prove useful when it came to the next - to which Gary Shepherd, was especially looking forward.
Now, two hours later, sitting directly across from where Megan and Maurice appeared to be enjoying each other’s company, Carver was feeling some sympathy for the man. He would, no doubt, be interpreting Megan Crane’s smiles and mild flirtations as evidence that she was as interested in him as he was in her. Carver was also listening, hard. What had passed between them so far was more notable for what hadn't been said. But as the waiting staff went about their business and the pair lapsed into silence, Carver sensed a change coming. Pressing his finger to his ear-piece, he focused. He didn't want to miss a word of anything that might follow. It was Clarke who broke the silence, leaning forward the moment the waiter and waitress had departed.
'So... Is this where you tell me you’re not interested and that I should get lost, or what?'
Megan Crane put down her glass, and eyed her companion through long lashes.
'Well, Maurice,' she began. Propping her elbows up on the table, she rested her chin on the backs of her hands. 'You seem very nice.' Clarke beamed, but managed to contain himself. 'And you have been, very charming.' She paused, stringing it out. 'So you tell me. What is it, exactly, that you are looking for?'
This'll be interesting, Carver thought. Not a mention of anything for two hours, and now she tells him to spell out his fantasies. Carver couldn't resist. Dropping his head to shield his gaze, he peered across.
All evening. Megan had been playing Clarke like he was on the end of a hook. But now, as she waited for the man opposite to make his pitch, she seemed to turn the, Do-You-Think-I’m-Sexy-dial up to melting. Her face took on a slightly dreamy look and the tip of her tongue emerged to run round the glossy red lips. Not for the first time, Carver experienced the pangs he had been doing his best to ignore since the moment he'd seen her greet her dinner-partner with an exchange of kisses and a smile that was a lot warmer than any she’d shown him. It also reminded Carver of how little they really knew about Clarke. The usual checks - credit, tax, digital profile - had revealed nothing more than motoring offences and a caution for Class C Possession at a rave-bust in his twenties. Divorced - amicably as far as they could make out - and with no recorded history of violence, Clarke was a father of two teenagers, both living with their mother. On the face of it, he seemed no more than what he purported to be, an unattached man looking for someone with whom to share his interests in BDSM. On the other hand, there was nothing to say he wasn't a psychopathic killer.
But if Megan's request that he spell out his fantasies had caught him off unawares, Clarke hid it well. Pausing only to glance round at the other diners - no one seemed to be taking an interest - he leaned forward.
'I wish to be able to worship a beautiful, dominant, woman.'
Though Carver picked up on the word that had become associated with the enquiry, he didn’t rush to react. In Megan's fantasy world, the noti
on of ‘worship’ was common. It didn’t necessarily signal anything. Clarke continued.
'I wish to be enslaved, totally. I want to be made to do my mistress’s bidding. Housework, cooking, cleaning, that sort of thing. Foot-worship as well, if that is acceptable. I don’t enjoy complete restraint, such as sensory deprivation, or severe pain, though I can take a light caning and being chained up, preferably, at your feet.' He paused, but when she didn’t respond he carried on. 'I’m not twenty-four-seven. I’m just looking for someone I can get to know, as a friend, as well as a Mistress. Someone I can see maybe... once a month to begin with?'
Carver waited. It sounded right. Clarke’s job meant he travelled the country. He glanced at Jess. Her mouth was hanging open. Then it snapped shut, as if she’d sensed his gaze. ‘He looks so normal,’ she said. ‘Who’d ever believe it?'
'C’mon Jess,’ Carver said. ‘You should be used to it by now.'
‘Yeah, but so far it’s all been behind closed doors. But tonight? In this place?' She looked around, as if half-expecting that diners might suddenly start tearing their clothes off and whipping each other. 'It just seems, weird.'
Carver was surprised by her apparent wide-eyed innocence. By now they’d been working with Megan Crane, on and off, for close to three weeks, helping her plan and set up the series of meetings with prospective ‘play-partners’. In reality, his and Jess’s input had been minimal. Megan had drafted the responses to the various letters herself, and No12 was her choice. Reading them, Carver had been impressed the way she dangled the prospect of a relationship, while making clear that nothing would happen unless she was entirely satisfied they were genuine. As Jess had said, 'She’d make a great politician.' But as he’d come to know her more, Carver had begun to suspect that motivations other than self-preservation and a sense of public duty, were driving her. She even seemed to be relishing the role of ‘bait’, to the point of offering to test her ‘suitors’’ intentions by engineering scenarios he worried would put her at risk if one did turn out to be the killer. On one occasion, when he’d pointed out that it was his job to protect her, as well as catch the killer, she’d turned coy, fluttering her lashes and expressing mock-gratitude for his gallantry. Despite himself, he’d smiled. Jess also seemed to find it amusing, though looked a little less certain. Tonight was the second of three arranged meetings. By now, Carver thought, surely Jess would have heard most, if not all of what there was to hear? Nevertheless, he followed her gaze as she stared at the couple across the room whilst waiting to hear Megan’s response.
Last Gasp Page 14
