ONE STEP AHEAD: detectives hunt a serial killer who knows all their moves (The DCI Jeffrey Brandt Murders Trilogy Book 1)

by Denver Murphy

  ‘I entirely agree,’ Johnson replied with a smile.

  ‘So why did you sweat him so hard, ma’am?’

  ‘His type makes me sick. What I suspected of him, having read his misogynistic and narcissistic messages to Sarah, was confirmed the moment he opened the door. He couldn’t give a shit about what happened to her, only how it might inconvenience him. I bet he’s never seen the inside of a police station and yet he walked in here thinking he could dick us around. That’s why I gave him that little parting gift. I want him to think it’s us back to arrest him every time he hears the doorbell.’ Johnson gently shook her head. ‘No. I want him to think it’s us every time a car pulls up in the street.’

  ‘Remind me not to get on the wrong side of you, ma’am,’ McNeil said with a smile. When it was reciprocated, he noticed for the first time that, despite being fifteen years his senior, there was something quite attractive about DCI Stella Johnson.

  Chapter Six

  Brandt pulled up in his driveway and switched off the engine. He observed that the steam emanating from the plastic bag on his passenger seat had fogged up the side window and the section of windscreen immediately above it. The aroma in the car had been building throughout the short journey. Although reluctant to open the door and allow it to escape, Brandt wasted little time exiting his vehicle, so keen was he to get inside his house and reveal its contents.

  He stood in the porch fumbling for the correct key with his head obscuring the beam from the automatic security light. The sudden ringing of the telephone from inside caused him to swear under his breath. Not concerned that he might miss it, his outburst was due to annoyance that someone wished to interrupt his carefully planned evening. Bet it’s that prick Franklin, he thought. And yet a sigh of relief escaped him as he first selected and then slotted home the key. The warmth of his house met him as he pushed open the door.

  Ignoring the continued ringing, he headed past the phone, shaking off his coat on the way. He did not mind in the least that it fell into a heap on the hallway floor, such was his keenness to get into the sitting room. In there was his familiar armchair with all three of the nest tables positioned around it. On the middle one was set out a plate and a selection of cutlery. He placed the bag on the table on the left and dashed into the kitchen to collect a beer from the fridge. He poured the amber liquid into the pint glass which he sat on the right.

  Brandt switched on the television but paid little attention, such was his focus on the bag’s contents. He chuckled to himself when he realised his order was far too large to fit on to the plate. He dished out just a spoonful from each container. Since his wife had left him, Brandt had become a frequent customer at his local Chinese takeaway. If asked, he was sure the owners would consider him a regular but neither they nor he had chosen to strike up a conversation. Today had been no different except for the wink Brandt received as he was being handed his freshly prepared order. Unsure whether to respond he had merely nodded, understanding that the owner had assumed the size of the meal implied he was expecting company.

  Entertaining that evening could not have been further from Brandt’s mind as he started working his way through the various dishes. For what he had planned, it was far more appropriate that he would be home with the curtains drawn. As he merrily listened to the national newsreader discuss the impact of the falling value of Sterling, he considered the contrast with how he had felt the week before.

  Although he had yet to see what the regional news had made of his endeavours that day, he was confident he would not wake up tomorrow feeling cheated again. It wasn’t so much that he had been unsuccessful in killing the girl, it was more the dispassionate way it was reported and how his resulting overindulgence of whisky had brought a premature end to what should have been an evening of celebration. As he had lain awake the next morning, his hangover doing nothing to lighten his mood, he had resolved that not only would he plan this next job so that it would have more impact, but he would also put more preparation into ensuring the evening that followed would be similarly enjoyable. That it had meant adjusting the timing of his actions so that the Chinese restaurant would be open on his return only made him laugh again, this time causing shards of prawn cracker to spray on the carpet. He very much doubted the police would consider that when trying to work out the motive behind the time of the attack.

  With smug satisfaction joining the warmth that the food was bringing to his stomach, Brandt returned his focus to the television. England had drawn away from home in what the reporter had described as a dour match. Brandt knew he had only a few moments to spoon some more Chinese onto his plate before the national anchor would announce the switch to the regional news.

  He took a long draught of his beer and his self-chastisement at not having the foresight to collect two from the fridge was interrupted by the same newsreader who had caused him so much disappointment the week before.

  ‘Our main story tonight is the brutal killing of…’

  In that instant Brandt knew that this might be the best night of his life.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Say that again?’ DCI Johnson demanded, grabbing DC Hardy by the shoulders.

  ‘The lab report shows traces of Sarah Donovan’s blood on the victim’s shoulder, ma’am,’ he replied nervously.

  Johnson relaxed her grip and screwed up her face in an almost-comic look of confusion. ‘What did you just tell me?’

  ‘I called the lab when the email came through and the pathologist confirmed that there had been a swipe of blood on the jacket inconsistent with what had come from the wounds. He had first assumed it was the perpetrator wiping the blade following the stabbing, but it wasn’t spread in the same way as it would if it were fresh.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ Johnson said absently, her brain already in a whir as it considered the ramifications of this discovery.

  ‘Erm, well, ma’am, if it was fresh it would have been more of a smear, whereas the pathologist said this was more, er, sporadic. As though dried blood had been loosened with a bit of water and then wiped on the jacket.’

  ‘Fuck me, just what we need at the moment with our case load, is a serial killer who thinks he’s a clever dick,’ murmured Johnson, who turned and paced down the corridor leaving DC Hardy stood there unsure what to do next.

  * * *

  ‘Wait a…’ Detective Superintendent Potter did not have time to finish before Johnson burst into his office. He was about to admonish her for the interruption but could see by her face that it was important.

  ‘Guv, it’s the same one,’ she blurted out.

  Potter held up a hand to calm her. ‘What is the same one, Stella?’

  She shook her head in frustration, not with the DSI, but that her rush to get the information out had only created delay. ‘The killer is the same perp as before.’

  ‘What before?’

  In a final effort to control herself she sat down. ‘The stabbing of that mother yesterday was done by the same person who knifed Sarah Donovan last week.’ Had DC Hardy been there, he would have noticed the same expression of incomprehension on DSI Potter’s face as he had seen on Johnson’s earlier.

  She explained what had been sent through from the pathology lab, before moving on to highlight the similarities in the instances. The size and serration of the murder weapons were consistent, as was the location of the injuries on the victims.

  ‘And it’s not the man you arrested for the first one?’ Potter asked as soon as she was finished.

  ‘No, guv,’ Johnson said. Although the man hadn’t been charged, he had fitted the profile of the person they were looking for. He had been on the train that had arrived from Birmingham and had a history of violence towards women, including two stints in prison. What had made his presence in Nottingham particularly suspicious was that he was currently serving a football banning order, following his involvement in ugly scenes during his team’s home match against Forest the previous season.

  ‘How can you
be so sure?’ Potter asked.

  ‘We didn’t release him from custody until later that evening,’ she added quietly.

  ‘Oh Christ, who else knows about this?’

  ‘Just you, me, and DC Hardy at the moment.’

  ‘Right, let’s keep it this way for now. Cut that bastard loose but don’t make it seem like he’s in the clear. We need to control this until we fully understand it.’

  Johnson nodded. ‘I had better go speak to Hardy.’

  ‘Hold on. He’s a good lad; he can wait a moment.’ Silence ensued as Potter gave the situation some thought. ‘Could it be the boyfriend?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘I don’t see the connection, but we’ll check it out.’

  ‘We need to control this,’ Potter repeated, as much to himself as to Johnson. ‘If this gets out there’ll be panic.’

  ‘And that’s not the worst bit, guv.’ Observing his raised eyebrow, she continued. ‘He wanted us to make the connection…’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘I don’t know why you’re looking so sad, it’s your fault.’ Brandt snorted at the newsreader, laughing. Oblivious to his accusations, she was explaining that the two young children were staying with their grandparents in another part of the country. ‘I had to pick her, otherwise you would have dismissed it like the other one.’ He raised his glass in a toast. ‘Well I hope you’re happy now!’

  The repetitive nature of the news reports that Saturday evening had caused Brandt to lose interest in the channel quicker than he had imagined, but he did check back occasionally to keep abreast of developments.

  Although the victim had been named within a few hours, a photograph was not released until the police press conference on Sunday afternoon. Back in his comfy armchair, he paused the television so he could study the features of the woman. The photo did reveal some of her beauty, but it paled in comparison to how she had looked in the flesh. Brandt cast his mind back to the previous day. This time he had identified his target as she walked towards him. She failed to pay him any attention even though he was the only other person in the alleyway that led from the housing development to some green space, presumably on the way back from the park. She had been preoccupied with encouraging her eldest child not to run his fingers along the wooden fences as she pushed the double buggy along. This had allowed Brandt more time to take in her features. As the gap between them closed he could see that the light makeup she wore had been hastily applied. He mused that its imperfectness only served to highlight the flawlessness of her face. When she absentmindedly twitched her head in an effort to move the ringlet of auburn hair that obscured her vision, he first glimpsed the deep blue of her eyes.

  With less than twenty feet between them he put his hands into his pockets. His right instantly felt the comfort of the knife’s handle beneath the glove and his left grasped the small bottle of spectacles cleaner. Brandt did not wear glasses and had bought the spray specifically for this purpose. He withdrew the items and swiftly moved them behind his back. A smile formed at the corners of his mouth as he considered the conclusions the police would jump to when they discovered the presence of this liquid on the woman. Brandt gave the blade two quick squirts of the solution on each side and then put the bottle in his rear trouser pocket.

  He never glanced down at the children as he drew alongside the front of the pushchair. His right hand was already lifting towards her upper arm and, slowing his pace a fraction, he wiped the flat of his blade against her jacket. The pressure he applied was sufficient to make her look over her shoulder and up towards him. Their eyes locked and he paused for an instant, enjoying this moment of tenderness before plunging the knife into her side. He barely allowed it to ram home before withdrawing and stabbing a further three times. Each occasion causing her eyes to widen further with shock.

  As her legs collapsed from under her, Brandt had to restrain himself from attempting to catch her, such was the synergy he felt with this woman. The spell of their encounter was broken when her head bounced violently off the fence and Brandt heard himself whistle tunelessly as he walked away.

  With the photo on the television screen causing him to relive the events in such vivid detail, Brandt could feel a stirring within, unfamiliar to him for so long. Initially surprised by his arousal, he rationalised it as perfectly understandable given the moment of deep intimacy he and the woman had shared.

  Brandt sat motionless for a time, wondering whether to acquiesce to his urge. Using his remote control to pause the screen, he gazed at the image, curious to find that it was not the man sat on the platform who was disturbing him. He was DSI Potter, someone he had met on occasion whilst still in the force. In contrast to the familiar sight of the balding middle-aged man, the person sat next to him was youthful, if not young, athletic and with long golden hair. He could almost believe it to be the woman from his visit to Nottingham train station were it not for the name plate indicating she was one of the leading officers. In fact, any similarity to what he had seen of the woman the previous week would only heighten his stimulation. DCI Johnson’s face, although far from unattractive, possessed a harshness about it. Combined with her piercing eyes it served only to unsettle him.

  He decided to resume the broadcast, hoping that moving it on a few moments would see an appropriate change in her expression. But as Potter proceeded with his standard spiel about lines of enquiry, DCI Johnson’s stare continued to bore into him.

  Distressed by the feeling of being watched, Brandt turned off the television. Without the inspiration of the photograph he realised that any yearning had now passed. Instead he got up to retrieve the whisky bottle from the drinks cabinet. He poured himself a generous measure and sat back down to contemplate the specifics of his next job.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Sarah winced as she attempted to sit up.

  ‘Please don’t stretch yourself,’ PC McNeil protested, glancing anxiously at the door. ‘As I said, it’s just a precaution.’

  ‘But the doctor said I may be able to go home in a few days. It makes no sense to move hospitals.’ Her mind suddenly cleared a little. ‘You said precaution. Precaution against what?’

  McNeil shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘We just think you would be safer that way.’ He could see tears welling in Sarah’s eyes. He had always considered himself a hard person and his family had been far from surprised when he entered the force. Although he had been in more challenging situations before, including informing people that their loved one had died, there was something about this case that resonated with him.

  ‘But I already have a policeman outside my door all the time; surely that gives me enough protection?’ Sarah was almost pleading.

  ‘I know but…’ Suddenly McNeil’s phone rang. He was relieved by the interruption. ‘Please excuse me,’ he said, stepping outside the room.

  ‘McNeil? It’s DCI Johnson,’ came the voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘Oh, hello, ma’am,’ he replied, trying to conceal his shock at her calling him directly.

  ‘You’re at the hospital, yes?’

  ‘Yes, seeing Sarah Donovan. I was…’

  ‘Have you told her yet?’ Johnson interrupted.

  ‘Well, I was sort of telling her when you called.’ McNeil didn’t really know why he felt nervous.

  ‘Right, well go and explain that you’re mistaken and there is nothing to worry about.’

  ‘But, ma’am…’

  ‘Concerned for your precious ego?’ Ordinarily McNeil would have been offended but he could hear a playful tone entering Johnson’s voice.

  ‘No, I just wanted to know why.’

  ‘You don’t need to know, Police Constable McNeil.’ Again, harsh but still playful.

  McNeil decided to push his luck. ‘Is it because you’ve caught him?’

  His question was met with laughter. ‘Afraid not. Quite the opposite in fact.’

  McNeil paused for a few moments. ‘Ah, I see,�
� he responded.

  ‘Do you?’ The playfulness had gone.

  ‘Well, I think there are only three possible reasons for the change in plan. You’ve just ruled out the first. The second would be to save resources but it’s not that either.’ He deliberately paused.

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘Because someone else would be calling. Someone… lesser.’ McNeil could almost hear the smile at the other end of the line. He smiled himself, thinking it was only a few moments ago that it was her who was making accusations regarding people’s egos.

  ‘Go on then McNeil, impress me with your acumen.’

  ‘You don’t want her to be safe.’

  ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

  McNeil paused, worried. If misinterpreted, his last comment could be seen as gross insubordination. His instincts told him to apologise and to qualify what he had said. It wasn’t as though he had a problem with authority; as an ambitious young officer he fully embraced that he would need to do his fair share of brown-nosing to get on in the force. But he sensed that wouldn’t work with Johnson. Any respect he had gained in their short time together had been a result of him being bold.

  In for a penny, in for a pound he concluded. ‘You want to use her as bait. You think the killer will come back to finish the job.’

  The silence that followed was oppressive.

  ‘PC McNeil, you are to report to my office the moment you return to the station.’

  The line went dead.

  Chapter Ten

  As McNeil arrived back at base, he realised that he didn’t technically know where DCI Johnson’s office was. The building had three floors and, until now, he had yet to venture to the Criminal Investigation Department at the top.

  ‘McNeil, over here!’ The duty sergeant that day was a grizzly veteran of twenty-five years’ service called Bob Andrews. Happy to consider himself old school, his uniform was always freshly pressed, and he took pride in polishing his shoes each morning. The other officers had a tremendous respect for him despite his unwillingness to socialise out of hours.