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

by Denver Murphy

  ‘Oh really?’ she said menacingly, approaching him slowly. ‘And what if I don’t want to be nice?’

  McNeil went to reply but Johnson reached forward and put her index finger on his lips. ‘Shhhh,’ she soothed. With her other hand she hitched up her skirt, so he could see her slender thighs. She removed her finger from his mouth, but when he went to speak she put it back, slowly shaking her head and placing her other hand high up on his leg, edging close to his groin. She could see him harden at her touch. Leaning round to whisper in his ear, she pulled his head close. ‘Now,’ she said, allowing her warm breath to fall on him. ‘Be a good little boy and make me a cup of coffee.’

  Johnson remained there for a moment, impressed that he hadn’t attempted to grab her this time. He was learning patience. That was good. Slowly she rose and enjoyed the anguish on his face. She took a step backwards, slipped her right foot out of her shoe and used it to part his legs. She placed it on the seat, inches from the front of his strained trousers and leaned forward, but only so her leg could bend and, with an almighty shove, she pushed him so that he and the chair went wheeling backwards; crashing into the door behind.

  Johnson stood watching the astonishment on McNeil’s face, and used a quick shimmy of her hips to encourage her skirt to drop back down into place. ‘And get me a fucking biscuit,’ she commanded.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  If this was going to work, Brandt would need him sufficiently inebriated so that he was unlikely to recall their conversation. So far, the signs were good. The match had started off well and a quick goal for Arsenal lifted the crowd, Franklin included. Spurs had scored an equaliser at around the half hour mark, but any concerns Brandt had that this would dampen the mood were instantly eradicated three minutes before half time when Arsenal smashed in a second. As the home fans celebrated, Brandt suggested he nip to the bar to get the drinks in. Franklin enthusiastically agreed.

  Exiting the stadium, with an injury time goal for Arsenal making the score 4-3, Brandt was going to wait until they saw the queues for the tube before recommending they stop somewhere to allow the crowds to die down. He need not have worried.

  ‘Mate, that was amazing. I’ve never seen a game that swung so back and forth.’

  ‘It sure did,’ Brandt replied. Even he had to admit the action, combined with the electric atmosphere in the stadium, had conspired to make it enjoyable. Perhaps not enjoyable enough to justify all the hassle and expense he had gone through to get hold of the tickets, but satisfying nonetheless.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t give you the money for my ticket?’

  ‘Nah, mate, my treat. Honestly.’

  ‘Well, how about I buy us a late lunch somewhere?’ This sounded promising to Brandt but would depend on what type of restaurant. ‘Besides, it would be wrong not to celebrate such a fine victory.’

  Bingo! ‘That sounds splendid. I think I might know just the place,’ Brandt replied diverting them from their current path.

  That the pub was packed with Arsenal fans and all the available seats were taken, didn’t seem to faze Franklin. ‘I’m sure we’ll get a table once some of these people go. Let’s have a couple of pints at the bar whilst we wait.’

  ‘Great, I’ll keep a look out,’ Brandt nodded. With Franklin busy purchasing their drinks, he deliberately positioned himself so he would be the one viewing the seating area. With the three beers they’d had already working their way out of their system Brandt wanted to ensure they remained standing for as long as possible. Holding a pint, rather than having it propped up on a table, always worked to encourage one to drink faster. That, in combination with their empty stomachs, was sure to get Franklin drunk quicker. Brandt wanted that overloading of the brain caused by fast intoxication to cover his tracks.

  If anything, the pub got busier during the first hour they were there. Brandt identified a couple of tables during that time but acted sufficiently slowly enough that other drinkers got there ahead of them. Franklin did not seem concerned in the slightest. He was maintaining a strong pace, the effects of which were illustrated by often cutting himself off mid-sentence to join in with the various football chants that occasionally erupted from the other customers.

  Brandt was no light-weight and had honed his ability to drink copious amounts over the last decade but, a preferred whisky man, he was starting to struggle with the sheer volume of liquid they were consuming. Selfishly he didn’t want to suggest a switch to spirits because of concerns that this may lead to him having to help Franklin home. Resolutely, he stuck to beer.

  Just as he was starting to feel nauseous from the effects of the alcohol combined with his empty stomach, he saw his chance arrive. Franklin was enthusiastically recommending they challenge some thugs in the corner to a game of pool. ‘Yeah, in a minute mate. There was something I wanted to ask you…’

  Chapter Fifty

  The percolator had needed refilling and McNeil planned on using the time to attempt to calm himself down. As he tried not to read too much into what had just happened, he was startled from his thoughts by DI Fisher entering the small kitchenette, claiming he was looking for a spoon for his yoghurt. McNeil had grown used to their supposedly coincidental encounters. Fisher had long since moved on from being hostile towards him, and was instead trying to act like a mentor. McNeil had been suspicious of the turnaround and, when Hardy had let it slip in conversation that Fisher had applied for the DCI position when Johnson had got it a couple of years back, his motive had become clear. With the enemy of my enemy being my friend, Fisher wanted to glean whatever information he could in order to jockey for position should Johnson be unable to catch the killer. McNeil felt uncomfortable with knowing a member of the team wasn’t fully on board, perhaps even glad that things weren’t going well, but would keep his concerns to himself for the time being. Johnson seemed to have enough on her plate at the moment.

  With the coffee finally brewed McNeil made his excuses to leave, deciding not to bring along the packet of biscuits that sat next to the machine. Holding a mug in each hand and using his foot to push open the door he hoped, with a smile, that his defiance of her instruction would lead to some form of retribution that may rekindle their earlier lack of professionalism.

  Yet Johnson appeared not to notice his re-entry, much less what he had failed to bring. Something about the furious way she was flicking between different images suggested to him that no amount of provocation would lead to a reigniting of their earlier intimacy and, with a sigh, he placed the coffee on the table nearby.

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Ah good, you’re back,’ she said, continuing to stare in front of her. ‘Hardy picked this up earlier. See this man here?’ She tapped the screen to show who she was referring to. ‘He crosses in front of the station twice in an hour.’

  ‘So, it’s near the town centre; surely there are lots of people that go back and forth.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s probably why no one flagged him up before. Let me show you the two sets of images and you can tell me what you think.’ Johnson stood up to allow McNeil to sit down. As she leaned over him to use the mouse, he could smell her fragrance once more. He had to close his eyes for a second to try and regain focus on what she was asking him to do, but he couldn’t help feeling unsettled by the apparent ease with which she could switch between work and play.

  Trying to push all other thoughts from his mind, he concentrated on the man crossing the road. Nothing about his movement was remarkable to McNeil. Presented with the second set of images he could tell it was the same guy; the only notable changes being him walking in the opposite direction and at greater pace.

  Johnson swivelled the chair round so he was looking at her. ‘So, what have you got?’

  ‘Well, you’re right it’s the same guy.’

  ‘And…’

  ‘And I bet you’ve looked at the footage more than once,’ he replied defensively.

  ‘You can see it again in a minute, but you have to notice
something first to make you want to see it again.’ McNeil understood what she was saying. With hours of footage from various cameras to trawl through, you only really had one shot to notice something out of place. Even if you didn’t yet know why, you had to have that inkling in the first place to prevent something being missed.

  ‘Well, I would say it is unusual that he is first walking away from town and then coming back towards it.’ McNeil could read the disappointment in Johnson’s eyes. He opted to continue, ‘It would make more sense for him to have been heading into town to pick something up and then returning a short while later.’ He could see the disappointment was turning into frustration. ‘Naturally he might have been heading away from town to go to the supermarket, or whatever, but then surely we would see a bag when he returned.’ He made the last bit sound triumphant and put his best smug face on.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, but…’

  ‘Oh, one more thing,’ he interrupted. ‘He’s walking much faster second time around.’

  Johnson stared at him. ‘You fucking tease!’ she shouted, punching him squarely on the arm. The irony of the statement didn’t escape McNeil. She turned him back towards the camera. ‘Now, when we switch to this camera what do you notice?’ she asked excitedly.

  He concentrated hard on this new footage. McNeil was about to confess that he could see nothing new when, just as the man crossed the front of the station, his pace slowed considerably as he walked out of shot.

  ‘Can you rewind that last bit please?’ There it was again; a definite slowing. ‘Er, can you show me the first camera view again?’

  ‘Well?’ Johnson asked, more patiently this time.

  ‘Have we got a camera further up? McNeil asked, pointing to the left of the screen.

  ‘I’m afraid the next one is towards the top of the hill and he doesn’t appear on there.’

  ‘Ok then, here’s what I think.’ McNeil paused whilst Johnson pulled a chair next to him. ‘I think he could well be our guy. He doesn’t select his victim in advance and picks one out from the crowd. He’s walking slowly in the earlier one because he is in plenty of time for the train. He must have picked out a potential target and followed her.’

  ‘And?’ Johnson prompted.

  ‘Something must have gone wrong.’

  ‘Like what?’

  He shrugged. ‘Could be anything really, she might have met her boyfriend around the corner, she might have parked up the road, she might have gone to the supermarket…’

  ‘Okay, so he comes back…’

  ‘Yes, but he’s in a hurry.’ He paused for thought. ‘So, whatever went wrong with the first target must have happened further on to allow for the time lapse. We can see that he’s timed it wrong because the passengers are all leaving before he is in shot. Oh, by the way, which one was Lily James?’ McNeil asked, turning back to the screen and expecting Johnson to lean across and wind back the image to the appropriate point. When, after a few moments, she hadn’t moved he turned back towards her.

  ‘She was the last to leave the station,’ she said simply, allowing the implication of this to hang in the air.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he cursed under his breath, before suddenly sitting up. ‘Why didn’t the Hertfordshire Constabulary pick this up?’

  ‘Turns out they did but they couldn’t get the image to scrub up sufficiently to get a good look at his face and he doesn’t appear on any CCTV anywhere in the vicinity. He’s like a ghost.’

  ‘Was like a ghost…’ McNeil offered.

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because the Hertfordshire guys were only looking at CCTV in St. Albans. If he’s our man he’ll be on the footage from here, Canterbury, and Milton Keynes.’

  ‘What now, McNeil?’

  ‘Er, go for a drink to celebrate?’ he offered hopefully.

  Johnson gave a small, wistful laugh. ‘Bit premature there. The magnitude of this is overwhelming. We have a blurry image of a fairly non-descript guy that we have to compare with thousands of hours’ worth of CCTV cameras. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

  ‘More like a needle in a stack of needles,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘Tell you what, let’s start with Milton Keynes and Canterbury as they will have the fewest cameras to check.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, McNeil,’ she said, slapping him on the back. ‘Tell you what, before we get started, why don’t you get us some coffees. I think this is going to be a long night.’

  ‘Er, ma’am, I already did,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the mugs.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she responded casually. She then turned to glare at him. ‘But you forgot the fucking biscuits!’

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Brandt’s hangover was unpleasant but not so debilitating as to prevent him being up and washed early. His instincts had told him that he couldn’t afford to wait. What cheered him up was imagining the state that Franklin must be in, no doubt attempting to hide his symptoms whilst delivering his Monday morning briefing. The information he had managed to extract wasn’t as detailed as he would ideally have liked but, with just about enough to go on, he’d decided that to push things any further would risk his persistence lodging something in Franklin’s inebriated mind.

  Brandt had feared it would take some persuasion to remove him from the pub, but he had been helped by the pool playing gentlemen taking exception to his claim that they were a bunch of pussies for not wanting to accept the challenge of a game. Suggesting they had better move on to another establishment, Franklin didn’t complain when Brandt steered him towards the tube instead. Back at King’s Cross, he had waited by the ticket barriers whilst watching Franklin totter unsteadily along the platform and onto one of the carriages.

  Satisfied, he had decided that the walk back to Euston would do him some good and, by the time he had devoured a Burger King before boarding his own train, he had been feeling much better.

  That was the last time he had eaten, and Brandt detoured his route to get some breakfast before picking up his car. As he sat in the café waiting for his fry-up to be served, he scanned a newspaper left behind by a previous customer. There was no mention of his killings, which suggested to him that all had remained quiet since those unfortunate articles the previous week.

  As he used his last round of toast to mop up the tomato sauce left on his plate, he considered once more the structure for the day. He knew that, this far into the game, revisiting a previous destination was particularly risky and had decided that he would cut down on CCTV exposure by driving the entire journey. Brandt had always wondered to himself who would be stupid enough to buy one of those cars you occasionally saw parked up on a verge somewhere, with nothing more than a price scribbled onto a piece of paper, along with a mobile number. And yet, leaving the café, he started punching into the cheap pay-as-you-go phone the digits for one he had spotted a few days earlier.

  ‘Hello there,’ came the heavy Irish accent through the receiver.

  Fucking pikeys! Brandt laughed to himself. Perfect. Any concerns that the vehicle might be traced back to him evaporated.

  ‘Good morning,’ he responded cheerfully. ‘I’m telephoning to enquire about the car.’

  ‘Now which one might that be?’

  ‘The Vauxhall Astra parked on, er, by Church Street.’

  ‘Ah, that one. Sure, it’s a fine motor there.’

  ‘Can you tell me a little about it? Does it run okay?’

  ‘Sure does, my fella. Sound as a pound. One lady owner and just sixty thousand miles. Barely run in.’

  ‘And how much do you want for it?’

  ‘Ah now, see, that’s the thing. You notice that little sticker in the window with three numbers on it?’

  Brandt hated this man already. ‘Oh, I see,’ he replied trying to hide his contempt. ‘In which case I think I might like to buy it.’

  ‘Would ya now? And when would that be?’

  ‘No time like the present…’

  ‘Sure enough, my fella. I�
��ll be right over.’ The line went dead.

  Despite the man’s promise, and even with the fifteen-minute walk, Brandt was at the car first. Having used the time to check it had no damage more superficial than the usual scrapes and parking dings, he was about to phone the number again, when a large white Porsche SUV came around the corner and parked up next to him. With the window dropping to reveal an unshaven man with a mop of unruly black hair, and a tasteless gold chain sat over the top of his checked shirt, Brandt put his phone back in his pocket. ‘I see I’m in the wrong business,’ he said, looking along the vehicle’s flanks.

  ‘So, you got the money then?’

  Brandt was pleased by the man’s unwillingness to engage in conversation. The less he knew about Brandt the better.

  ‘Here it is,’ he said holding up a roll of notes. ‘Would you like to count it?’

  ‘Not at all, my old fella, I trust ye,’ he replied with a wink. ‘Would you like a test drive?’

  ‘Nah, I trust you too. I need the paperwork though.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he said reaching into the glove compartment to pull out a fresh looking V5. A quick scan revealed that the car had five previous owners, the last a man called Oscar Miles. Rather than raise complaint, Brandt was satisfied to see the address was in Yorkshire and clearly not the man sat before him.

  ‘Want me to fill it in?’

  ‘Up to you, fella,’ he said, shrugging.

  ‘I’ll get it in the post today,’ Brandt replied, handing over the money.

  ‘That’s the spirit, I’m sure you’ll have many years of happy motoring.’ The man tossed Brandt the key, gave him a wink and set off, window still retracted.

  Walking up to the car Brandt pressed the button for the central locking system. So far, so good, he thought opening the door. Unperturbed by the unfortunate looking stain on the driver’s seat, he lowered himself in. With the key inserted, he nervously waited as all the warning lights on the dashboard came on; relieved to see each one subsequently disappear. Making the final twist he heard the starter motor try and fire the vehicle into life. Turning over longer than it should, the engine finally caught before settling down into a reassuring thrum.