Yet today, zipping along Nottinghamshire’s country roads couldn’t have been further from Johnson’s mind. All she wanted was to get to the train station and check her teams were set up exactly as instructed. She figured the railway was as good a place as any. As well as being the location of the first attack, it might also be the route by which the killer would arrive. Logic dictated that he was a resident of Nottingham, but Johnson had always worked on the principle that nothing should be ruled out until done so by the evidence.
‘You’ve done well so far, McNeil,’ she said, somewhat out of the blue.
‘Nah, let’s be honest, ma’am, I’m no Lewis Hamilton,’ he replied.
Johnson let out a louder laugh than she would have expected. She put it down to the tension. ‘No, I meant so far with this case, not your awful driving. And you can call me Johnson when we’re not with the rest of the team.’ As though suddenly aware of the potential shift in relations the informality both statements brought, she jumped straight onto the radio. ‘DI Fisher can you update me on your position?’
They both waited whilst her second in command gave a detailed description of where he was and what he was doing. With his officious tone offering no sign that he would stop talking any time soon, Johnson leaned forward to turn down the volume. McNeil’s sudden gear change caused her to require two attempts to find the relevant knob. Facing him again she added: ‘But your driving’s shit. I’ll take over later.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he replied with a wry smile.
Chapter Twenty-two
As Brandt switched off the engine, he closed his eyes for a few moments, enjoying the quiet; punctuated only by the small pings and ticks coming from the engine bay as it cooled. Once again conscious to avoid places where CCTV was installed, he had decided to leave it near the university campus and walk the remainder of the way. At this time of day things were quiet, to the extent of rejecting the original parking spot he had selected from Google Maps for being too empty. Where he was now, struck a fine balance between being somewhere secluded but sufficiently populated by other vehicles that his car’s presence would go unnoticed for a few hours.
As he stepped out into the still cool morning air, he began to stretch his muscles, enjoying the freedom of movement after the journey. He heard another car coming up the road and, before it came into sight, Brandt started walking. When it was gone, he doubled back so he could retrieve his jacket from the car and lock up. With no one else on the road he paused, wondering whether this wait alone would change today’s fate for a particular individual. Would these few seconds mean that he would encounter a different person when he arrived at the location he had selected? Perhaps. Perhaps not. He contemplated waiting a little longer but then cursed himself for indulgent thoughts such as these; reminding himself that he had a job to do.
Within a couple of minutes, he was on the main road headed into town. Here it was much busier with both traffic and pedestrians, but he felt comfortable in such surroundings; his anonymity assured by being one of a number of people making the journey to the shops. Having been overtaken by a bus, he paused at the next stop to study its route. Just like him, it was heading straight into the city, but Brandt didn’t contemplate catching the upcoming one. The presence of cameras on board ruled out the possibility, and Brandt was genuinely enjoying the walk. It allowed him time go over his plans and for the thrill of anticipation to build.
His mind drifted back to DCI Johnson, wondering how she was feeling at this particular moment. He suspected that she would still be calmly waiting for the day to play out, with it still far too early to fear something had gone wrong. That would come much later and, by then, he would be back in his car, possibly even home. More than anything he wished he could see her expression change from the initial frustration of believing today had been a washout. He wondered what would happen to that cold, icy stare when she realised that not only had she been outwitted, yet again, but also that what they were dealing with was far greater than they had anticipated.
Chapter Twenty-three
‘Shall I nip in there and grab us some lunch?’ McNeil asked, pointing at the branch of Subway just down the road from where they were parked. They were positioned near the station, having spent most of the morning moving between the main sites, checking that everything was as it should be. From a policing perspective, it was all as planned. There was an increased and overt presence in areas like the shopping centres, where the greatest concentration of people was, along with a discreet but focused force at the previous crime scenes.
‘What?’ Johnson asked absentmindedly. ‘Erm, no. I’m not hungry.’
‘Well, I’m starving. Got to eat, all that nervous energy…’ McNeil trailed off, undecided whether or not to push the matter. ‘Something small?’
‘Ok, I’ll have a coffee,’ Johnson replied, still staring at the entrance to the station.
McNeil’s laughter was loud given the relative quiet of the interior of the car. ‘That’s not exactly food.’
‘Surprise me,’ Johnson managed with a weak smile. In truth she hadn’t paid attention to what type of food McNeil was proposing. For all she knew, he might come back with a kebab or something equally frightful. Regardless, she was relieved to have a few moments to herself.
She hated this part of the job and the waiting around was one of the reasons why she had sought to join CID. Being a detective was both reactive and proactive: something would happen that they would then investigate, whereas uniform would spend a fair portion of their time waiting for something to happen. At least then she hadn’t necessarily known what that something would be. Today she knew all too well. The longer she spent in the car that morning, the more convinced she was that the killer was going to strike again. Perhaps it was happening now, in some secluded part of the city and it was just a matter of time before she got the phone call to confirm.
‘God, I need a cigarette,’ she mumbled to herself and unconsciously started drumming her fingers on the top of the steering wheel.
‘Here,’ McNeil said a few minutes later as he got back into the car and handed her a wrapped cylindrical package. ‘I went fairly plain with turkey and ham because I didn’t know what you like but, if you’d prefer my teriyaki chicken, I’m happy to swap.’ He sounded genuinely cheerful and either the fresh air had done him good or he was simply excited at the prospect of addressing his hunger.
‘Thanks,’ Johnson said, placing the sandwich on the dashboard and opening the door before adding, ‘I just need to check on something.’
Johnson walked up the street in the casual style she had been taught. Totally observant, constantly scanning her surroundings with her eyes, but with limited head movement. Her pace was nondescript; neither appearing in a hurry, nor slow enough to lack purpose.
She was heading for one of the policemen whom she had occasionally shared a cigarette with outside the station. His name escaped her and, as she approached, she witnessed his demeanour change from someone apparently waiting outside the bookmakers to alert and ready for instruction.
He relaxed back into character as Johnson leaned on the ledge next to him and he looked into the street with the same vacant expression he had shown a few moments earlier.
‘Got a smoke?’ She asked, without looking in his direction.
He didn’t reply but, instead, reached inside his jacket and handed her the packet of cigarettes. Lambert and Butler were far from her preferred brand, but Johnson could feel the nicotine receptors in her mouth come alive in anticipation of the forthcoming first drag. She smiled as she noticed one of them had been turned upside down; the white paper contrasting with the orange-brown of the filters. ‘Lucky fag,’ she murmured. If her colleague heard her, he didn’t respond.
Johnson decided that she needed all the luck she could get and withdrew the upturned cigarette from the packet. Without needing to ask, she was handed a lighter and, having applied the flame and taking a long, satisfying drag, she waited whilst he lit one of h
is own before beginning the short walk back to the car.
It was with a mournful look she observed that there was still a third of the cigarette left as she neared the Audi but, not wanting to draw attention to herself, she quickly flicked it into the roadside gutter before getting back into the vehicle.
If McNeil minded the stench of the fresh smoke as it enveloped the car, despite the open windows, he didn’t say. He remained concentrated on finishing his roll, having demolished most of it in the time Johnson was away. She took a sip of the coffee McNeil had placed in one of the Audi’s cup holders and then proceeded to open her sandwich.
Her appetite was even less than before thanks to effects of the nicotine and the sight within the wrapper. Although packed with salad, there was far too much bread for someone who was so carbohydrate conscious. Unless she was having a blow-out, Johnson was careful what she consumed, and wished she had paid more attention to what had been proposed for lunch.
Gingerly raising it to her mouth, she took her first tentative bite. Her slow chewing action soon became more rapid and she had barely finished her mouthful before she went in for seconds.
Johnson’s, previously absent, eagerness for lunch did not go unnoticed. ‘Good huh?’ McNeil said. He didn’t wait for a response. ‘I find the plainer ones like turkey and ham require a more exotic cocktail of sauces. I didn’t risk the hot chilli but, instead, asked for a combination of chipotle southwest and sweet onion.’
Johnson had to swallow quickly before the laugh escaped her. ‘Quite the connoisseur, aren’t we?’ She managed to keep her tone the right side of mocking.
‘Well, there’s not a whole heap of choice when you’re out on the beat and you don’t want to get fat on burgers and chips.’
‘You could make your lunch?’
‘But that would just be replacing a sandwich with a sandwich…’
‘Good God, I forget how young you are sometimes,’ she replied good-naturedly. ‘There are so many things you can have. What about leftovers from the night before, or brown rice with vegetables? How about some couscous or even some quinoa?’
‘Good God,’ McNeil mimicked. ‘I forget how posh you are sometimes. Even if I knew what quinoa was, you’re assuming I could cook the stuff.’
‘Nah, it’s simple. Even you couldn’t fuck it up,’ Johnson said, smiling.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Before thinking through the possible implication of his next statement he added, ‘perhaps you’ll have to show me sometime.’
The silence that followed was uncomfortable, bordering on oppressive. The seconds that passed seemed like hours to McNeil. Desperate to end it, he was deciding whether to qualify his statement or just try and change the subject, when Johnson added in low and thoughtful voice, ‘Perhaps I might.’
Chapter Twenty-four
Johnson slipped the key into the lock. Her house was empty and lifeless, save for the lamp that had been switched on by the automatic timer. As she took off her shoes, a noise from her stomach reminded her it was over eight hours since lunch. However, as she approached the refrigerator her hand veered down at the last moment and opened the freezer instead. Collecting the bottle of vodka from the bottom drawer, she slammed the door shut and selected a simple glass tumbler from one of the kitchen cupboards before making her way into the sitting room.
She had a headache from her constant vigilance throughout the day, and decided against putting on the television. Instead she used her phone to play some Emeli Sandé through the room’s Bluetooth speakers. Johnson closed her eyes and could soon feel the effects of the soothing music and the vodka, which she was sipping neat.
As the weariness faded a little, she was frustrated that it was replaced more with disappointment than relief. The afternoon had proceeded like the morning and, save for a few anxious, and ultimately fruitless, phone calls made by members of the public, there had been nothing to report. By 3pm Johnson had started to suspect that nothing was going to happen and two hours later she had become convinced of it. Yet she had held on for a further three hours, having stood down most of the officers once the majority of the shoppers had gone home. McNeil had refused her attempts to send him away and even offered to stay out later in case something happened with the evening’s revellers. Notwithstanding that, he had not protested too much when she had declined his offer, having also believed this wouldn’t really fit in with the style of the killer.
The absence of food in her stomach was causing the vodka to have a quick effect. If she were going to be able to function properly in the morning, she knew she would have to nip the drinking in the bud. She wanted to believe that the feeling of disappointment that remained was because they would need to be vigilant tomorrow in case their murderer had merely moved his schedule back a day, hoping for an easier time of it. Therefore, any feelings of relief that he had not struck again would be premature. The truth was that a part of Johnson wished something had happened. Although unlikely to be fortunate enough to catch him in the act, at least that would have given them another crime scene and, consequently, more clues as to his identity. Sure, he had been careful and cautious so far, at least when he had chosen to be, but sooner or later something would slip. Irrespective of whether it was through carelessness, arrogance, or perhaps some unforeseen bad luck on his part, eventually Johnson would have a decent lead.
With her thoughts returning to work once more she poured herself one last vodka in the hope it might settle her mind again. Finding that it didn’t, she resorted to a hot bath in the hope that the combined effects of it and the alcohol would allow her a reasonable night’s sleep.
Regretfully placing the bottle back in the freezer Johnson trudged upstairs and turned on the taps. She applied a liberal amount of her favourite bath oil, watched the water turn into nourishing milk, and inhaled the scent of argan and sweet almond. Although her choice of outfit for the day had proven comfortable, it was a relief to cast it off and put the items in the laundry basket.
With the water still running Johnson didn’t hear her mobile phone’s ringtone and it was only when she switched the taps off, and she was swirling the bath’s contents as a final check of the temperature, that she noticed the caller’s third attempt at reaching her.
Cursing that she may miss it, she lunged for her towel to dry her hands and just managed to answer it before it rang off again.
‘Yes,’ she barked irritably unto the mouthpiece. Having not programmed McNeil’s number into her contact list, she hadn’t recognised the number on the display.
‘Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘I wasn’t asleep, I was…’ Johnson didn’t finish, for some reason uncomfortable with the idea of sharing her current location. Although her body was dry, and she was perfectly warm within the confines of her bathroom, she wrapped a towel around her.
‘I emailed you a link,’ came the barely concealed command.
‘Look it’s late McNeil, get to the point.’
‘It’s our man…’
‘What?’ Johnson asked, but before receiving a reply her mind was already going ten to the dozen, trying to decipher McNeil’s last statement. Had he been caught? But how? Had he handed himself in? But why? Had he made contact?
‘Down in Kent.’
Johnson’s thoughts suddenly ceased. ‘I don’t understand…’
‘Around lunchtime today a girl was murdered in Canterbury. Er, it sounds like our man. Same sort of woman attacked. A stabbing…’
Chapter Twenty-five
Brandt was in his armchair, his usual brand of whisky next to him, with the television on. He was watching an old comedy on an indistinct satellite channel that relied on repeats to fill the airtime. On any normal day he would have switched over long before now, lamenting how the programme was nowhere near as funny as it had seemed at the time of original transmission and how people’s enduring fondness for it was based more on nostalgia than actual taste. But today, in combination with a few generous measures of a
lcohol, Brandt found himself hooting with laughter in tandem with the canned background audience.
When he had returned home earlier that afternoon, Brandt had only briefly turned to the news channel. Unperturbed by his day’s exploits making it no further than a brief mention on the South East local news, much in the same way his first act in Nottingham had done, he merely thought to himself: Give it time. Whilst surfing the channels until something took his fancy, he contemplated how long it would take the authorities to establish the connection. He hadn’t wanted to make it too easy for them; he wanted to give them the opportunity to reveal how good his foes were. Were they so focused on their immediate vicinity that the connection would only be made once they discovered the cunningly concealed murder weapon or was Johnson casting her net sufficiently wide? If it was the former, they would only ever see what he allowed them to see. However, if the latter, then maybe he wasn’t as many steps ahead of them as he had suspected.
As the catchy end credits music started, Brandt decided he would treat himself to an early night. The improvised plan he had made regarding the murder weapon and its implications had taken up most of his thinking that afternoon. A part of him regretted it because today, as with the others, he had achieved something beautiful. He wanted a chance to relive it, free from the distractions of the television and made his way upstairs with a final refill of his whisky glass.
Settling into bed, Brandt closed his eyes and thought of the girl. She had raven black hair, worn a summer dress, and had been barely protected from the chill of the spring air by a light denim jacket. She was taller than average but, despite this, she walked with an air of lightness and careless abandonment. She wasn’t the first girl he had selected; he had followed the original as she had veered from the high street onto the back roads. As before, he had enjoyed following her; soaking up the thrill of anticipation, safe in the knowledge she was oblivious to his presence. As they moved further away from the main part of the city, she had even stopped in a street free from any pedestrians. Believing this to be his moment, Brandt had quickened his pace and had almost closed the distance when he saw the glint of metal being withdrawn from her handbag. Despite believing it could be a blade, Brandt had continued walking, tightly gripping the handle of the knife in his pocket. It was just as he was about to pull his weapon free that he realised it was a set of keys in her hand; a fact confirmed by the sound of a lock being turned once he had gone past.
ONE STEP AHEAD: detectives hunt a serial killer who knows all their moves (The DCI Jeffrey Brandt Murders Trilogy Book 1) Page 8
