When she held her hand out to him, Brandt stood up. Nothing had been said in those moments since she had come downstairs. He looked at his wife with genuine longing for the first time in years. As he had stepped forward to embrace her, she suddenly pulled away, reminding him that he had yet to have his dessert. Brandt, in his best attempt at an alluring voice, had suggested he thought she was dessert. As she moved into the kitchen, he suddenly had some kinky thoughts about whipped cream and chocolate sauce, but she did not return with a bottle or a can. Almost reverentially she held in both hands a side plate with a small silver cloche on top; evidentially another purchase. She nodded to indicate that Brandt himself was to unveil its contents.
Without hesitation he lifted the lid, keen to see what was there, given it was too small for either of the foodstuffs he had considered earlier. Initially baffled by what lay before him, Brandt leaned forward to take a closer look.
It was a pill. A blue pill.
Without looking at his wife, he turned and walked out the house. This wasn’t the last time he saw her; in fact, she didn’t leave for nearly another year, but this was the last time she had initiated sexual congress.
Chapter Thirty-eight
‘You okay, McNeil?’ Johnson said as they approached the building.
‘Yeah, but… well, last time I was here it didn’t exactly go smoothly…’
‘Ah come on, that was an honest mistake. Could have happened to anyone.’ Her wink, rather than prove reassuring, suggested to McNeil that she only half-meant it.
‘Sarah Donovan. It’s DCI Johnson and PC McNeil. May we come in?’
A long pause. Johnson and McNeil looked at each other. ‘Er… sure, but I have… I have company.’
‘That’s okay,’ replied Johnson in as light a tone as she could manage. ‘I’m sure this won’t take long.’
‘Erm, okay. Come on up.’
As they took the stairs up to the flat, McNeil couldn’t help but relive those horrible moments of a few weeks ago when, first, he thought he was too late and the attacker was going to get Sarah, to be followed by the realisation that they had only caught her old boyfriend instead. What was his name? McNeil wondered.
‘Josh,’ Johnson called out in surprise.
McNeil looked round in confusion. How did she know…? They had only just pushed through the heavy fire door into the corridor. Josh Ramage was exiting Sarah Donovan’s flat, clearly in a hurry. Perhaps he had hoped to make it to the stairwell before they arrived in the lift.
‘I must say I am a little surprised to see you here.’ Johnson’s voice was somewhat mocking, suggesting impropriety.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he responded, more to Sarah than Johnson. ‘Call me when you’re done.’ With barely a glance up he made his way past the police officers. McNeil noticed that Johnson was slow to move to one side, and wondered whether she had been thinking about standing her ground to see how he would react.
‘Miss Donovan,’ Johnson said, much more formally than when she had introduced herself on the intercom. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us. May we come in?’
What followed was an interesting but ultimately fruitless conversation. Johnson had been careful not to reveal any more about the investigation than was already in the public domain. Sarah was surprisingly sketchy on the details; having only picked up a few things here and there. McNeil asked her why she wasn’t more concerned about her attacker being captured. She countered by saying that there was nothing more she could do to help and that the best thing for her was to try and move on. As if to illustrate this, she said that she was currently negotiating with her school when to start her phased return to work. Despite this, Sarah agreed to go through the events of that fateful Saturday in as much detail as she could remember which, as it transpired, wasn’t much, and no more than she had been able to provide in the days following the attack. Johnson had been keen to explore any physical contact, no matter how fleeting, that in any way could indicate a sexual motivation. It would seem, certainly from what Sarah remembered, there had been none. McNeil was hardly surprised. Given the location and the crowds outside the railway station, it would take an attacker far more brazen than theirs to attempt to grope her first.
‘Any good?’ he asked as they made their way back down the stairs.
‘Nope, as expected really. With nothing sexual on the bodies of the three victims this really was a long shot, but it was still an interesting visit.’
‘Ah, Josh you mean.’
‘Yes. By the way, what did you two talk about when I went to the bathroom?’ Johnson asked, trying to sound casual.
‘Nothing really.’
‘Oh.’
McNeil burst out laughing. ‘I knew it.’
‘Knew what?’
‘That was deliberate!’
‘Yes, it was a conscious decision to empty my bladder.’
‘You know exactly what I mean. You wanted to leave us alone in the hope I would ask the question.’
‘I did no such thing,’ Johnson protested. ‘Did you though?’
‘Yes, she said that her and Josh were together.’
‘Go on,’ she said impatiently.
‘If you wanted to know more, you should have asked her yourself.’
‘McNeil!’ she shouted, punching his arm. Thankfully they were now exiting the building and well out of Sarah’s earshot.
This small bit of playfulness felt good to McNeil. The last few days had been difficult, not so much because of the seeming pointlessness of revisiting evidence that had been thoroughly interrogated first time round, but because Johnson had become increasingly withdrawn. If this had happened immediately following their trip to Canterbury, McNeil would have taken it as her regretting how close they had come to being more than just work colleagues, but the discovery of the murder weapon had enlivened her; for a short time at least. For McNeil, establishing the link between Nottingham and Canterbury had been bitter sweet. Although he had never met the owner of the car garage, he disliked him intensely. If the man had been lazy enough to wait until after the whole day of trading before handing a knife into the police, a blood-stained knife for fuck’s sake, he could have waited for the next day, allowing McNeil a few brief moments of happiness.
It made him even more desperate to catch the killer. He knew that his best chance with Johnson would be the inevitable celebrations that would follow the arrest. But he wasn’t sure he could wait that long, especially as it had seemed that Canterbury might have signalled the end of the murder spree. Yet McNeil knew that if he made a move at the wrong moment he might ruin his chances altogether. And, so far, their days had only seemed to be a series of wrong moments with Johnson’s increasing sullenness. If it hadn’t been for what had happened in Canterbury, he could have suggested they go for a drink to drown their sorrows, but he knew Johnson was sharp enough to realise the suggestion would not be as innocent as presented.
McNeil understood that there were only two ways this cycle was going to end. The first was that they would run out of evidence to re-examine and, with the investigation being scaled back, he would return to normal duties. The other was for the killer to strike again and provide Johnson with the boost she needed – they both needed. Acknowledging it would mean the death of another innocent person. He resented the growing part of him that wished for the latter.
He need not have worried, for, whilst he was in the midst of these dark thoughts, Brandt was on the move again.
Chapter Thirty-nine
He felt better; much better. The pills had been put back in their various bottles and he had abstained from drinking for the last couple of days. He was even managing a fair amount of sleep each night. As if to prove to himself how far he had come since the abject despair of a week ago, Brandt had decided to meet Franklin once more.
The previous encounter had been as bad as he had expected. Over an hour sat in a coffee shop, hoping that no one could overhear the pathetic whining of his former colleague. When the te
ars had eventually come, Brandt made his excuses and left. Phoning Franklin had not been an act of guilt, seeking to apologise for his swift exit. Attempting to make it up to him would prove to Brandt that he was sufficiently recovered from the shock of St. Albans that he could resume his work again. However, Franklin had taken some convincing. His tone was ice cold when he first picked up the phone and, for a few moments, Brandt thought he would hang up. Even his subsequent apology appeared insufficient until Brandt claimed that the reason why he had needed to leave was because all the pain Franklin was suffering was serving to bring back the pain he felt; he still felt about his own divorce. Brandt would not admit to himself how much truth there was in this statement, instead choosing to focus on its apparent success. The positive effect had been immediate. Franklin offered his own apology; for being insensitive; for being so wrapped up in his own misery that he hadn’t considered the impact that it would have on Brandt. They resolved to try to avoid discussing women, and agreed to meet for a walk along the canal near where Franklin lived.
Although the warmth of the afternoon had been in stark contrast to the chill he had felt in St. Albans, the parallels between those two days did not escape Brandt. He had never been good at small talk and with Franklin determined to avoid the topic of spouses, something he was clearly preoccupied with, the conversation was laboured; punctuated by frequent, awkward silences. Attempts to focus on previous encounters similarly failed with the realisation that they had few shared experiences worthy of recollection. Instead they swapped stories of old cases, something Brandt found himself more comfortable doing. They had a number of anecdotes worth sharing, although he became aware that some of Franklin’s were far from authentic; often claiming to have said or done things Brandt knew for a fact had been different or should be attributed to others. Not that it bothered him, Franklin seemed much more comfortable and he had to admit that just being out of the house was doing him some good.
Nevertheless, it came as surprise when Franklin suggested they pop into the pub by the locks a bit further up. He had reiterated on the phone that he was still trying to lay off the drink and with even the past stories starting to dry up, there seemed no reason to prolong their meeting. It was purely out of curiosity that caused Brandt to agree.
He made a point of declaring that he was buying the first round, keen as he was to see if Franklin would select something non-alcoholic. Indeed, Franklin made a point of asking the bartender what soft drinks they served, but all the while was unable to take his gaze from the selection of beer pumps. Trying to sound helpful, Brandt had even suggested a shandy, but the response, which had been a pint of Stella, had come as no shock. Moreover, the greedy way in which Franklin had watched it be poured spoke volumes in itself.
Ordinarily, Brandt would have followed suit but conscious that the last thing he needed was to be pulled over for drunk driving, and have his prints matched to those in St Albans, he settled for a coffee. Any disappointment Franklin had felt by his partner’s choice seemed forgotten as he took three large gulps of his beer, even closing his eyes to better enjoy the sensation.
With Franklin more relaxed than Brandt had ever seen him, the conversation, admittedly somewhat one-sided this time, soon began to flow. Franklin had insisted that he return the favour and buy them another drink, even though Brandt had little more than sipped at his coffee whilst waiting for it to drop to a more palatable temperature. Brandt had agreed but resolved that this would be their last. Yet something changed that made him decide to stay a bit longer.
Franklin, with the effects of the Stella starting to take hold, struggled to keep his promise of not talking about his wife. However, he managed to keep it to only the odd coarse and venomous remark. But what held Brandt’s attention was his starting to refer to current cases he was overseeing. None of these meant anything to Brandt, but he was intrigued by this uncharacteristic lack of professionalism. Seeing little risk in it, he steered the topic to what had happened in Nottinghamshire and Kent. Although Franklin worked for Thames Valley Police, a force covering a relatively large area that ranged from Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire in the north of the region, down to Berkshire in the south, and consequently not connected to either investigation, it came as no surprise that Franklin claimed to have operational knowledge.
Beneath all the bluster and bullshit, Brandt detected that Franklin had no real understanding of what was going on, other than what had been made available to the public, but there seemed to be a genuine link between him and the DSI there, Robert Potter. No doubt Franklin had met him at one conference or another and had attempted to brown-nose him in the same way as he had Brandt, looking for yet another way to get a leg up in the force.
Brandt exited the pub later that afternoon, pleased that Franklin had not accepted his half-hearted offer to drive him home, claiming instead that he would get a taxi later. An idea had formulated in his mind that he needed to think through.
Chapter Forty
‘It’s now or never,’ Johnson said. They were sat in a coffee shop waiting for the extra uniformed officers drafted in, almost purely for appearances sake, to be in position.
‘Huh?’ McNeil responded, not for the first time surprised to hear her vocalise something he was thinking. But his thoughts were more of a personal nature. He assumed Johnson was referring to it being Saturday and, with it marking four weeks since the murder in Canterbury, if their killer didn’t strike today the chance was he had decided to quit. McNeil held the same view. He knew from brief references she made to the DSI that things were to be wound down on Monday. In truth, he could understand why. They had been going round in circles for the past fortnight looking for new clues that simply weren’t there. Whatever had motivated the man to target some women in Nottingham and then switch to Canterbury, before stopping altogether, remained a complete mystery.
‘Won’t be here though,’ she said, raising the last dregs of her coffee to her mouth before thinking better of it and putting her cup down.
‘Unless Canterbury and the gap since was to make us complacent.’ McNeil instantly regretted saying it, thinking that Johnson could view this as a criticism.
If she had, she didn’t show it.
‘It still doesn’t make sense to me. He’s targeting women; young, attractive women. There is a clear motivation there, so why stop? Also, why change areas as well, only to then stop? What has he achieved by that? It just doesn’t make sense,’ she said.
‘Maybe he wasn’t planning on stopping but something made him stop. He got ill, or run over or something.’ McNeil realised how unlikely this sounded but he was desperate to contribute; to have Johnson converse with him, even if it was to tell him he was wrong, rather than just share her own thoughts out loud.
‘Unlikely but possible… He must have enjoyed what he was doing, and he was clearly good at it. To commit a murder in broad daylight without being seen and leave no real evidence is hard, but to manage it multiple times takes skill. If nothing else, he must have got off on the thrill of being successful.’ Johnson was becoming more animated now. ‘And we know this because he had the arrogance to want us to know they were all his work.’
‘So why not carry on? Kill a new girl each Saturday, picking different locations to keep us guessing?’
‘It wasn’t enough,’ she said thoughtfully. In the long pause that followed McNeil wanted to ask for clarification, but he could tell by Johnson’s expression that she was concentrating. Eventually she continued, this time fixing McNeil with that hard stare of hers: ‘The act of stabbing Sarah Donovan wasn’t enough for him. He made sure that he killed his next victims by ensuring he opened the wound with a twist of the knife. But perhaps the thrill of that wore off too. A bit like how they say heroin addicts are always chasing that feeling from their very first hit. The only way they can do that is to up the amount to try and compensate for the body’s growing tolerance of it.’
‘Oh yeah, like you hear of some alcoholics drinking a bottle of vodka first
thing in the morning just to be able to make it through the day.’
‘Precisely. So, what does our guy have to do to chase the thrill of that first kill?’
‘Up the dosage. So, what, kill more frequently? But he hasn’t.’ McNeil wasn’t sure Johnson’s line of logic was working out.
‘Yes that, or go for a bigger hit.’
‘Like what?’
‘That I don’t know. Why don’t you get me another cup of coffee whilst I think about it?’
McNeil was happy to oblige. Anything to ensure that, if these were the last couple of days working together, it wasn’t filled with Johnson moodily stalking around Nottingham with a look of hurt resignation etched on her face.
‘St. Albans!’ Johnson virtually shouted at McNeil as he carried the two cups back to the table. ‘Why didn’t I think of that before?!’
McNeil was now genuinely confused. ‘But you did?’
‘No, I thought it might be; perhaps I just wanted it to be him. But I couldn’t make the connection, at least not in a way that I could convince the DSI.’
ONE STEP AHEAD: detectives hunt a serial killer who knows all their moves (The DCI Jeffrey Brandt Murders Trilogy Book 1) Page 15
