by Conrad Jones
Annie raised her eyebrows and looked in the drawer. She puffed out her cheeks and sighed. “Each to their own, Sergeant.” His embarrassment was mildly amusing under the circumstances.
“All the same,” he huffed. “That could be classed as an offensive weapon. Maybe she hadn’t dated for a while.”
“I hope you’re not jumping to conclusions, Sergeant,” Kathy Brooks said from the doorway. “And I hope you’re not trampling on my evidence.”
Annie sighed and pointed to the severed head. “We’ve had a preliminary look around. There’s a twenty-pound note in her mouth. I pulled it an inch to see what it was, no more than that. It’s still in place. We haven’t touched anything else.”
“I can’t moan about that considering our last victim is nothing but ashes,” Kathy said smiling thinly. “I’m tempted to move her immediately,” she shuddered. “There’s no smell of petrol here, which is reassuring. This looks slightly more disorganised don’t you think?”
“He hasn’t taken as much care cleaning up but I’m convinced what he has left behind belongs to the victim, not himself. He’s playing games.”
“Agreed,” Kathy nodded. She looked impatient. “I’ve sent everything from the first scene for analysis as a priority. If we can get to work quickly here, then we can run comparisons on whatever we find,” she said matter of factly. “I’ll get started. Unless you need more time here?”
“Crack on,” Annie smiled sarcastically. She gestured to Sterling that they should leave. “We’ve got plenty to be getting on with although I’m not a hundred percent sure where the starting line is on this one.”
“Thanks, Annie,” Kathy smiled. “As soon as I have anything, I’ll call you.”
The detectives left the bedroom and headed down the hallway. Annie was relieved to be away from the cloying smell. She held her breath until she reached the back door only releasing it when she was a few metres clear of the kitchen. White suited figures filed in as they left, nodding mumbled greetings. Their eyes were filled with a mixture of anticipation and dread. She felt slightly amused as they walked through the shattered gate. A vision of an overweight constable battering his way through it sprang into her mind. A fit police officer would have been over the fence in a heartbeat. It was a tiny drop of dark humour in an inky black ocean of despair. What the mother suffered trying to gain access to her daughter’s house was beyond understanding. Annie felt sick inside.
“Where are we with her phone messages?” Annie asked sifting through an ever growing list of priorities.
“I’m hoping there’s a printout on my desk when we get back, Guv.”
“Okay. For now, we have to assume that the first victim is Jackie Webb, and the phone messages will hopefully confirm that, agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“I don’t think this a random slaying, agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“More importantly, I don’t think the sick bastard is going to stop there, agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“See how Google’s team is getting on with the text translation and get a handle on the phone records. I’ll take a look at the BMW and meet you at the station.”
“Guv.” Stirling closed his leather jacket against the breeze and ambled off to his car. Annie guessed that it had taken a full cow hide to make the back of his coat. She ducked beneath the crime scene tape and approached the Army Logistics officer, who had supervised the search of the flat and the BMW.
He smiled as she approached. “Inspector,” he greeted her. “The car is safe.” He gestured towards the vehicle. A man dressed in a bomb suit, which made him look like he was related to a rhinoceros, raised a gloved thumb. “There is blood and hair in the boot. I’m sure your forensic team will have plenty to play with.”
“Good,” Annie replied. “We need a few breaks on this one. Have you got anything from the first scene that could help me?”
His chest seemed to swell beneath his protective vest as he thought about her question. His boots were polished to a mirror finish, his greying hair cropped close to his scalp. “I’ve spoken to the fireman who lifted the hatch to the attic and from what he said, I can tell you that your killer is an accomplished incendiary bomb maker.” Annie raised her eyebrows and waited for him to elaborate. “He said he heard a metallic ‘click’ and something rolling before a light came on in the loft.”
“Which means what exactly?”
“Your killer probably made an electric circuit of some kind and then used a metal ball bearing as the trigger.”
“Can you explain that to me?”
“He balanced a metal ball on something, then when the hatch was lifted, it moved it. Once it was dislodged from its seat, it rolled down a tube or a pipe where it lodged between two electric contacts completing the circuit.”
“Switching on the light?”
“The light could have been part of a simple cooking appliance, which heated up quickly igniting the fuel.”
Annie frowned, “Cooking appliance?”
“Yes,” he shrugged. “A hotplate or even a heating element like the ones campers use to make a cup of hot water.”
“The ones which look like a coil?”
“Exactly. If the element was inserted into a sealed container of petrol, the ball bearing makes the circuit, the element is switched on, reaches a high temperature in seconds and whoosh.” He clapped his hands together making Annie jump. “Simple yet very clever and a method widely available on the internet.”
“Would you say he was ex-military?”
“Possibly but it’s not a given. A military mind may have opted to make an explosive device rather than an incendiary. Your killer basically started a fire. With a little practice, anyone with half a brain could have rigged that up.” He smiled. “Having said that, it might be beyond some of the squaddies I’ve met in my time but most would manage it.” He laughed at his private joke. Annie was too deep in thought to catch it. “As soon as we have sorted through the remnants of the device, I can tell you more.” He nodded his head. “Good luck with catching him, Inspector.”
Annie smiled in thanks and watched him walk away, his movement regimented. He began to dismantle the bomb suit that his officer was wearing, unfastening the back and detaching the sleeves. The wind blew harder causing her good eye to weep. She wiped a tear from the corner and blinked to clear her vision. There was a chill creeping into the air; winter was well on the way. She sighed and walked towards her car thinking hard about what she had heard. Her killer had spent time researching, planning and testing his incendiary device. The simplicity of its construction was frightening. She ruled out the military connection for now. Why make an explosive when petrol is freely available and simple to ignite. If they did find more victims and she was sure that they would, their investigation would be threatened by the possible presence of booby-traps. Killing the victims wasn’t enough. He wanted to interact with the investigators. Was he trying to injure and maim those who came to investigate the deaths or was he simply destroying evidence. Annie shivered and hoped that it was the latter.
CHAPTER 13
Jim Stirling drove to Canning Place on the banks of the River Mersey, with all four windows down as far as they would go but he couldn’t shift the smell of the dead women from his airways. He had witnessed some gruesome crime scenes, murders, suicides and road accidents but the images of today’s victims would stick with him for a long time. The level of depravity showed that the killer had hatred so powerful that most normal functioning human beings couldn’t comprehend it. Inflicting pain was ultimately as important as their death. Yet their death was still not enough to satiate his desires. The dressing up and the dismemberment were post mortem abuse inflicted by a twisted individual. Dealing with that was difficult. When he thought about the suffering that had been inflicted upon the women over an extended period of time, he felt anger burning in the pit of his stomach. How many times did they beg him to stop, plead for their lives or beg him to speed u
p their deaths? He was a special kind of evil.
Stirling thought of his own family, his new wife and child and how fragile they were. Indeed, how fragile life itself is. One thing was for sure, he would kill to protect them, die to save their lives and crawl over razor wire to keep them from harm. All that said, they could be taken from him in an instant. Illness, a terrible accident or a random act of violence and they could be parted forever. He could never know when or how they would be parted from each other and it didn’t do to dwell on that one surety, death. They would part someday and nothing could stop that. Life is short and sometimes tragic, he mused. All he could do was take down the criminals that operated in the city. Every killer they locked up was one less threat to his loved ones. The man who had slain Jayne Windsor and Jackie Webb was right at the top of his hit list.
He used his pass to access the secure car park at the rear of the concrete fortress. He checked his rear mirror and noticed two armoured riot vans had pulled in behind him before the ram-proof gates slid closed. There were fifty or more vehicles in the compound, a mixture of private and police owned. He drove his Volvo as close to the entrance as he could and pulled the vehicle to a halt. He turned the engine off and sucked the sea air deep into his lungs. The riot vans parked near him as he opened the door and climbed out. Shutting the door, he walked towards the station’s rear entrance.
“Windows are open, empty-head!” a voice shouted from behind him. A team of uniformed officers dressed in body armour were disembarking from the van closest to him. One of the men took off his protective helmet and visor to reveal a black balaclava. Stirling recognised his eyes but he didn’t have a clue what he was shouting about. “You have left the windows down!” he shouted removing his balaclava.
Stirling recognised him as his ex-colleague from ten years earlier, called Lee. He looked at his car and grinned. “I’m on a different planet at the moment,” he laughed. His friend walked around the vehicle and they shook hands. “We’re on a wet one. Double murder we think.”
“You think?” Lee scoffed. His perfect teeth looked unnaturally bright against his Asian skin. “Which bit are you unsure about, that there are two victims or whether they were murdered? You should redo the detective exams.”
“Funny,” Sterling said sarcastically. “You’ve done the ‘smart arse’ course recently?”
“Failed it.”
“That figures.”
“I heard about the explosion,” Lee stopped joking. “Was it a bomb?”
“Incendiary, as far as we can tell,” Sterling shrugged. “There was a strong smell of petrol coming from the loft. The firemen lifted the access hatch and boom!”
“And all your evidence went up in smoke?”
“Apart from the photographs and some bits and pieces that had already been removed, we lost the lot.” He shook his head and changed the subject. “What’s with all the armour?”
“Drugs raid in the Everton Valley.” Lee shrugged and grinned. “Crappy job to be honest. When I got my papers telling me that I had been posted to the Forced Entry Unit, it was like getting an arrow through the neck and finding a tax bill attached to it. Still I’ll take that over your gig right now. Listen, I’ll have to go but if you fancy a few beers after work one night, let me know.”
“I will.”
“You won’t,” Lee grinned. “You’re under the thumb.”
“I will,” Stirling insisted. He lowered his voice. “Do you still work with that sergeant from the Halewood station?”
“Woody?”
“That’s him.”
“I don’t see him every day. We’re on opposite shifts. He’s on the nightshift this month, why?”
“I need some inside info on a Special who was stationed there.”
“Why the interest?”
“She’s one of our vics.”
“Nightmare.”
“Keep it to yourself for now.”
“Of course, got a name?”
“Jayne Windsor but it has to be hush hush.”
“Leave it with me. I’ll message you later.” He hugged the big detective and jogged off to catch up with his team. “See you later, empty-head and don’t forget to close your windows; there’s a lot of criminals around!”
“Smart arse,” Stirling grunted as he opened the door and put the keys back in the ignition to close the windows. That done, he headed for the lift.
The doors opened on the fifth floor, which was the home of the Major Investigation Team. The sound of chatter greeted him; some voices were on the telephones and some in conversation with other officers. He could see that Google’s team were busy at their desks and decided to leave them to it for now. Getting involved in an in-depth conversation with Google was the last thing that he needed. Google would take thirty minutes to say what others could say in ten.
The coffee station looked to be fully functional and stocked up with a fresh brew, which made a pleasant change. He walked over to it and filled a mug with the steaming liquid, debating whether to add three sugars or stick to his diet and use sweeteners. The diet lost. He needed the calories. Today would be a long day.
“Those phone records that you asked for are on your desk, Sarge.”
“Cheers,” he said with a thumbs up. Putting the mug down, he struggled out of his leather jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. There were a stack of brown manila files on his desk and he sifted through them as he sat heavily in his swivel chair. Preliminaries from forensics, which basically listed everything that needed testing. Until the results came back, it was of little to no use so he put them to one side. Beneath them was the record of Jackie Webb’s mobile phone account, calls, text messages and the PIN code to access her voice mail. He glanced over the first page and took a slurp of coffee. There were some landline calls and some mobile numbers. All the calls were incoming but the majority were from withheld numbers. That didn’t seem too odd for a mobile beautician. The numbers wouldn’t tell them much until they could be traced. He took another sip, slouched back in his chair and turned the page.
His eyes widened when he read the first text message and almost choked on his coffee when he read the second. The text messages ranged from suggestive to pornographic. They were enquiries about the services that she provided but not the type that he was expecting. She hadn’t replied to a single text. He’d worked enough cases to know that prostitutes didn’t communicate via text message. Her business card had said ‘beauty therapy’ but Stirling had serious doubts about the type of therapy that she was offering. He sat and read two pages of smut before he decided to skip straight to the voice mail.
“You look flushed,” Annie’s voice disturbed his thoughts. “What’s up?” she pointed to his half filled coffee cup. “Do you want that topping up, I could murder one?” she frowned at her pun. “Wrong choice of words, do you want another?”
“Yes please, Guv.” He put the receiver down and waited for her to return. She placed his cup on the desk and then took the seat adjacent to him, sliding her coat off as she settled into the chair. He noticed that her scar reddened and became more obvious when her skin was exposed to the wind. Her false eye was the elephant in the room whenever they were alone together. They had never really discussed the attack by Richard Tibbs. He had often wanted to tell her that she was still an attractive woman despite her scars but he didn’t want her to take it the wrong way. They had a good working relationship and he wanted to keep things that way. She smiled and rubbed her hands together and breathed onto them.
“It’s gone cold out there now,” she said. “So what has got you so hot and bothered?” He felt her gaze on him, studying his expression, which always made him feel uncomfortable. Sometimes he thought that she could read his mind. “Come on spill the beans.”
“Have a peek at them,” Stirling said handing over the text messages. “I think Jackie Webb was offering more than a manicure.” Annie glanced over two pages, raised her eyebrows and nodded in agreement. “I was just dialling her
voice mail when you walked in.”
“Dial away,” Annie said reading on through the records. “It certainly appears that she received more enquiries about the price of a blow job than a blow-dry. It would explain how she could afford that apartment.”
Stirling dialed her voice mail box and punched in the code to access her messages and then sat back and listened. “They’re running latest message first,” he informed Annie. He listened for a few moments. “The first three are the same guy asking if she is coming or not. He doesn’t sound very happy.” Annie flicked through the pages of messages as he listened. Her face blushed at some of them. “Two abusive calls from another bloke calling himself, John. He wants to know why she’s wasting his f-ing time and he won’t be using her again.” He frowned. “And he called back to tell her that she had a fat arse anyway, apparently.”
“Oh dear,” Annie said sipping her coffee. “At least she’ll never have to hear that.”
“Two more calls asking why she didn’t turn up for their appointments.”
“Men?”
“Yes.”
“I’m guessing that they weren’t booked in for a conditioning treatment.”
“We’ll need to track all these callers down,” he said growing more convinced that his hunch was right. “Not a single female voice or mention of waxing or nail extensions. Obviously Jackie Webb has gone off the grid so we can assume our first victim is her and that she was a call girl.”
“Hmm, I wonder if she kept it from her best friend because she was a Special Constable or if she knew?” Annie thought out loud. “Or maybe she did know and Jayne Windsor just didn’t tell her mother what her friend did for a living.”
“Maybe.” Stirling agreed. “Her card clearly states that she’s a beautician. Having said that, if you were in that game what else would you have on your business card?”
“The mind boggles.”
“This changes things.” Stirling frowned. “They could have been a client.”
