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

by Denver Murphy

  Although these dark thoughts had only lasted a few moments, they had two unfortunate consequences for Brandt. Firstly, he no longer felt physically aroused. He only had a moment to mentally curse DCI Johnson for once again seeking to spoil his mood, before the second consequence became all too apparent. The woman was now only a matter of feet in front of him. Brandt had just a couple of seconds before he would pass her. He hated the fact that he was being rushed but, seeing no sensible alternative, he thrust his hand into his pocket and felt the now-familiar comfort of the steak knife’s hilt.

  Whether he had fully explored the various scents, or sensing the growing impatience at the other end of his lead, just as Brandt was about to brandish the knife, the pug started trotting back to the path. Aware of Brandt’s proximity, his owner glanced up. Brandt stopped as their eyes locked. She was quite simply the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Knowing that he would rather die than break the connection, he was dismayed when, after the merest of smiles formed on her lips, she started turning her head.

  Desperate to restore the moment, Brandt went to speak but all that could escape his mouth was a hushed ‘Um.’ Nevertheless, this had the desired effect and, whether involuntarily or not, the woman turned back to face him. Her smile remained but was now more quizzical than when it first appeared. Brandt returned the gesture and was about to attempt talking again when he saw her glance down. As the sun once more glinted off the exposed blade, the woman’s eyes widened and the lead dropped from her hand to fall silently to the ground.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Duty Sergeant Andrews glanced up from his logbook. McNeil could see the look of pity on his face. He would rather anything but that; a sanctimonious smugness followed by an I told you so would have been preferable to his disappointed expression. But McNeil didn’t have time for this now. As soon as Josh had recovered from the shock of being wrestled to the floor by five heavily armed specialist firearms officers, he had started ranting about police brutality and civil law suits. Whether the massive dump of adrenaline in his system had provoked the outburst of aggressive masculinity, so absent in his interview with DCI Johnson a couple of weeks before, or whether it was an act put on in an attempt to mask the embarrassment of having voided his bowels, McNeil didn’t know. All he did know was that Josh calmed down considerably once led away from a stunned Sarah Donovan, who had opened the door to find out what the commotion was outside her flat.

  McNeil had yet to see Johnson, and their last contact had been by phone; confirming that Josh was not to be arrested and could be released. It had been a brief conversation with none of the playfulness and intrigue of the call when he had been at the hospital a few days earlier. As if McNeil needed reminding, Sergeant Andrews seemed to endorse his suspicion that he was going to be made the scapegoat for this bungled operation. His mood hadn’t been helped by the firearms officers beating a swift retreat as soon as it was clear that Josh wasn’t a suspect. McNeil had been left to deal with the mess. By the time he had failed to reassure Sarah that what had just happened didn’t mean she was in any danger, Josh had left the area. PC Strachen, more than a little shaken up herself, had observed him walking back towards the city centre around about the same time the van containing the other officers had sped away. In a way he was grateful that Sarah decided she was going to stay for a time at her parents’ house. Although he had to endure their vehement stares as they came to collect her, it did mean that he wouldn’t have to spend the remaining few hours of his shift sat with Strachen making inane small talk.

  All McNeil now wanted to do was get this day over and done with, and go home to drown his sorrows. For a few hours the alcohol would allow him to take his mind off thoughts of his stalling career and what mundane tasks awaited him when he returned to work on Monday morning. Although the murder investigation would continue as before, he very much doubted that he would have a role to play in it any longer. He sighed as he looked at his watch and realised he still had a little over three hours remaining until he could clock off. He was going to find a quiet spot to complete the mountain of paperwork associated with events from this morning, and attempt to keep as low a profile as possible.

  He was about to head off to the vending machines to grab a coffee before starting, when he heard an all too familiar voice.

  ‘McNeil. My office. Five minutes,’ barked DCI Johnson from across the room.

  By the time he looked up she was already heading towards the main exit.

  Well this is it, thought McNeil. Any hopes of being allowed to quietly slip back into the anonymity of his old role had been dashed. He would now have to face the humiliation and injustice of being blamed for merely following orders. Whilst he knew that he would want to stand up for himself and argue that any fallout from that day was Johnson’s responsibility for hatching the risky, not to mention ethically questionable, plan, he also still felt somewhat intimidated by her. Even if he could brave the inevitable wrath that would immediately meet his accusations, he could do nothing to stop her exacting revenge by ensuring he was given nothing more high profile in the future than shoplifting. He could of course make a formal complaint but as modern as the police was in the 21st century, and as much as official policy endorsed whistle-blowing, the truth was tradition came above everything. A grass was still a grass, and a grass could not be trusted; shunned forevermore by his colleagues.

  If Sergeant Andrews had an opinion on how best to handle the situation, he clearly wasn’t keen to share it and maintained his focus on completing sections in his logbook. All that remained for McNeil was to get this over and done with, in the hope that he might be allowed to leave early and crack on with his plan to quickly fall into an inebriated oblivion.

  It was as he neared the top of the stairs that he remembered he still didn’t know the code to enter the plain clothes’ floor. Just as he was about to gingerly knock, like a school pupil at the door to the staffroom, he heard footsteps behind. Without greeting, Johnson brushed past him and started punching numbers into the keypad. McNeil was hit by the strong aroma of fresh cigarette smoke mixed in with whatever perfume she had applied that morning.

  Although she held the door open behind her, she did not look in McNeil’s direction and strode across the floor towards her office. That none of the few detectives in the room glanced in either of their directions was small comfort. He walked into Johnson’s office and turned to close the door, having resolved to speak first; hoping that a heartfelt, in tone at least, apology might go some way to fixing things.

  Nevertheless, it was she who spoke first: ‘Who shat in your cornflakes?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Not quite the apology McNeil had intended.

  ‘I said, why are you looking so glum all of a sudden?’

  ‘But, ma’am, the flat… Sarah, Josh…’

  ‘Ah, bollocks to that. So what?’

  ‘But I thought you would be…’ Was all he could manage in reply.

  ‘Nah, it was a long shot anyway.’ She smiled and eased back in her chair. ‘And as for that contemptuous little twat, I would love to have seen the look on his face when he saw all those automatic weapons trained on him.’

  McNeil felt himself relax. More out of relief than becoming emboldened, he sat down before being invited. If Johnson had a view on this, her expression did not reveal it. She continued: ‘One of the officers said he literally shat himself.’

  When McNeil couldn’t manage to suppress a laugh, Johnson followed suit. Her smile completely lit her entire face; her usually cold and piercing blue eyes positively swimming with the mirth that lay behind them.

  ‘But what about the press?’ McNeil asked, as soon as he had calmed down. He instantly regretted the question. So far, the exchange had gone far better than he could have wished for. Why did he have to say something that might cause Johnson’s mood to sour?

  ‘Again, so what? The fact is the papers are always banging on about public funding cuts and fewer officers on the streets. At least it shows tha
t we were out there, looking after the first victim. And if I know anything about Josh, he’ll keep quiet. His ego won’t want any uncomfortable questions about how he reacted, or even why he was there in the first place. Besides,’ she continued thoughtfully, her tone becoming more serious. ‘We still have a killer on the loose.’

  ‘So, what now?’ McNeil enquired.

  But before Johnson could reply, her office door was flung open and DI Fisher rushed in. ‘Ma’am, there’s been a fatal stabbing!’

  Chapter Seventeen

  DCI Johnson was not aware that DSI Potter was on the phone when she burst in; yet showed no remorse once she realised. Potter, placing his hand over the receiver, was about to admonish his subordinate but something about her intense, not to mention impatient, glare caused him to change his mind. Instead he uncovered the mouthpiece and said, simply, ‘I’ll have to call you back’ before hanging up without waiting for a reply.

  ‘Guv, it’s him!’ Johnson declared, her voice almost shouting.

  ‘Stella, slow down. What’s him?’

  ‘He’s killed again.’

  ‘Oh.’ No further explanation was necessary; DSI Potter knew who was being referring to. His heart sank. Immediately his mind flooded with the implications of this news. Beyond the natural concern that yet another of his citizens had fallen victim to this perpetrator, he was conscious of the enormous pressure that would come from his superiors. That there had been no leads so far of any worth was bad enough, but another murder so soon after the last, had the whiff of a serial killer about it. The media would go into a frenzy and the spotlight would fall firmly on him, despite Johnson as DCI having the lead role in the investigation.

  Yet Potter was very much of the old school and firmly believed in maintaining a calm demeanour in front of his team. Over his thirty-year career he had gradually worked his way up to the position he had now held for the past seven. He had no desire to rise any further, believing the job of Chief Superintendent was the perfect balance between authority and remaining grounded in day-to-day police work. His success and the respect he had gained along the way was not down to the impetuous enthusiasm and commitment shown by promising officers such as DCI Johnson, but by a steady and methodical approach. That way he could be always relied upon to do a solid job, and his logic and eye for detail, along with his willingness to nurture a diverse team of differing talents, ensured that few crimes warranting their attention went unsolved. Although what faced him now was looking likely to be his biggest test so far, he was not going to abandon the professional approach that had served him so well in the past.

  ‘Give me the lowdown,’ he said, using his right hand to indicate that Johnson should sit in the chair opposite his desk.

  Continuing to stand she replied, ‘Stabbing on the Trent, mile or so west of the cricket ground, past the memorial gardens.’

  ‘Same weapon?’

  ‘Not confirmed yet, guv, but it was a woman in her late twenties.’

  Much as Potter wanted to raise a note of caution and to tell Johnson not to jump to any unnecessary conclusions, he knew such comments would be born out of hope more than expectation.

  ‘Right then, we need to meet this head-on in the press conference.’ His voice now had the steely resolve of someone who had decided on an appropriate course of action. ‘The public is going to want answers so I’m going to get it delayed until Monday morning to give you time to work on any lead. If, as I suspect, an arrest hasn’t been made by then I will make an appeal to the public. We need them to be more vigilant moving forward. At the very least, if another attack cannot be avoided, someone might see something.’

  ‘Okay, guv, do you mind if I make the appeal?’

  ‘Sure, but why?’ Potter was surprised that Johnson would want the negative attention that would be associated with, to all intents and purposes, admitting that the people of Nottingham were no longer safe.

  ‘No offense, guv, but I think it will have more impact coming from a woman.’

  Potter paused for a moment, raising an eyebrow and selecting his words carefully: ‘I didn’t think you had any time for gender stereotyping?’

  ‘I don’t sir; I hate it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. If just one woman takes extra care as a consequence of me making the appeal, then it’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Potter replied evenly. It never ceased to amaze him how complex Johnson’s character was. Each time he thought he had her worked out, he found another facet. He cast his mind back to the waves she had caused when she first made detective. It wasn’t so much burning ambition, more a determination to prove herself that had caused her to appear so abrasive to her colleagues. Potter suspected that, despite nothing pertaining to this being on her file, she must have faced some form of discrimination earlier in her career. The way she had dressed, so determined to hide her femininity and natural attractiveness, added credence to his thoughts. Understanding the politics of policing, just as much as the procedures, Potter took Johnson under his wing and mentored her in finding a balance to her approach. He had explained that if every crime she solved came at the cost of alienating a colleague, she would soon find herself isolated and marginalised. Potter had been concerned that such a warning could be misconstrued by Johnson as a threat, but it had very much been taken in the spirit that had been intended. Moreover, whilst Johnson had learned to play the game, superficially at least, she never lost the quick-witted tenacity that had ensured her rapid progress. If the reputation and respect, if not popularity, she had gained with her subsequent promotion, was not sufficient proof of her successful transition, her change in appearance was. Gradually make-up, almost imperceptibly subtle at first, had been applied, and her hair had changed from always being scraped back into a ponytail to typically flowing half way down her back. So too followed an all-year-round tan and clothes that, whilst remaining entirely professional, accentuated her athletic figure rather than attempting to hide it.

  ‘You never know, guv,’ Johnson said, rousing Potter from his reminiscences. ‘Perhaps we’ll have him nicked by Monday anyway.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘No,’ she replied flatly. ‘I think he’s enjoying himself too much to let a stupid mistake spoil things.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘You lying bitch!’ Brandt shouted at the television screen, whilst sat in his familiar armchair. Any similarities to previous outbursts over the last few weeks were just superficial. Whereas before they had been filled with venom and vitriol, this was laden with glee.

  As planned, DSI Potter handed over to DCI Johnson after outlining the main points of Saturday’s murder and stating that a number of leads were being followed. Brandt had observed this with only mild interest, having already gleaned the information from press reports over the weekend. This was to be expected and Brandt knew that even if they did have some key evidence that might lead to his capture, the last thing they would do was share it publicly. But it was of little concern because, once again, he had given the police very little to go on. Reflecting once more on means, motive and opportunity; things had changed little since Brandt had started on his new career. He was still using the same ubiquitous steak knife, but he knew the police would have attempted to draw some conclusions regarding his motive and opportunity. Clearly the three attacks would lead them to believe that he either lived in Nottingham or close by. Any suspicion someone was travelling from further afield, like he was, would be countered by the variety of locations used. By not only spreading out across the city but also using different settings, from a busy train station to a river path – via a housing estate alleyway – the police would see this indicating solid contextual knowledge.

  That the victims were attractive women overwhelmingly indicated the motives of a man, was not a worry. He certainly didn’t see the narrowing of the profiling to a specific gender mitigating against the subterfuge created by the incorrect radius of their search area. Brandt knew that the vast majori
ty of murders committed by women were crimes of passion and therefore his victims being unconnected was enough alone to point towards a man.

  The bit of their thinking he could not follow was the consequence of something deliberate on his part. He assumed that by this third act they would know they were dealing with the same man, but Brandt had been keen for that connection to be made earlier. Of all the things he would have loved to understand, it was what they had made of the swipe of Sarah Donovan’s blood on the second victim. It was without question they would know he had deliberately done this, but they would not know his reasons why.