by David Hodges
Naomi was just seconds away from oblivion, she realized that with a sense of anger and indignation, silly thoughts crowding her head. She still hadn’t submitted her story, so she couldn’t die now – not here in this obscure derelict, in the gloom and the dust. She hadn’t made her mark yet, which meant she would become just another faceless crime statistic, a nondescript reporter on a regional rag, whose rape and murder would be mourned briefly, but soon forgotten. No one would know what she had achieved, that she had been on the verge of the biggest story ever to hit the south-west. No, it wasn’t right; she had to have the fifteen minutes of fame Andy Warhol had once promised everyone; she had to live!
The self-defence classes she had attended just six months before had been a waste of time and money; the cynic inside her had told her that. Confronted by a powerful man, a woman had no chance whatsoever and she had been convinced that all the moves and clever steps the hairy, balding instructor had recommended were nothing but bullshit. Yet for some reason she remembered them now.
Twister knew nothing about the classes and, had he known, he would probably have laughed derisively. That he didn’t laugh was due to the fact that he was caught completely unawares. He had expected Naomi to struggle, to throw herself forward in a panic or reach up to grab his arm in an effort to break his grip; he hadn’t expected her to suddenly throw herself backwards towards him.
Caught off balance in spite of his size, he sensed the stairs immediately behind him and instinctively relaxed his grip to steady himself and avoid pitching head over heels to the ground floor. Before he could recover, Naomi had torn herself free and was stumbling away from him.
She had reached the bathroom and was slamming the door shut before he could recover and he heard the snap of the lock being engaged even as he went after her.
The door would not have held against him for long, but time was not on his side. The blast of the police radio sent him racing to the window at the end of the corridor and, glimpsing the blue helmet in the street below, he snarled his frustration and headed for the stairs. It had all gone wrong. For the first time since he had returned to the Levels, he had lost an intended target and, to make matters worse, he had had to abandon the audio-surveillance equipment he had left in the bathroom as well. Maybe it was time to finish the game and get out before his luck deserted him completely. But no, not just yet. He was enjoying his stay in the twitcher’s house too much and there were still several varieties of malt whisky to savour, plus some nice smoked salmon in the fridge.
He glimpsed Roscoe approaching along the lane as he climbed into the car and drove off at speed. There was no mistaking the DI’s squat muscular build and his distinctive pork pie hat, and he grinned wolfishly. Out in the nick of time, it seemed, and he was too far away even for the index number of his car to be clocked. Maybe his luck was holding after all.
chapter 18
THE CAR-PARK of the wildlife reserve was empty. Tracy Long was nervous as she got out of the car and followed her three friends along the track into the woods, the towel in the haversack on her back seeming to weigh a ton. She had never done this sort of thing before, but a dare was a dare and, despite the coldness of the afternoon, she knew she had to go through with it.
Her Irish boyfriend, Josh, had suggested they bunked off college and went skinny-dipping. ‘No one’ll be there in the afternoon this time of year,’ he’d promised. ‘It’ll be a great craic.’
Her two friends, Lisa and John, were of the same opinion. ‘Real cool,’ Lisa said with a grin. Tracy frowned. It would be that all right – more like bloody freezing.
They got to the hide without seeing a soul and Josh checked inside to make sure no one was there. Then, stepping on to the wooden landing stage that jutted out a few feet into the lake from one side of the wooden building, he began stripping off. Tracy watched him, biting her lip and pulling her anorak more closely about her. ‘I don’t think …’ she began, but Josh was already naked and lowering himself into the water lapping the reeds. Turning to look at her other two friends, she saw that Lisa and John were already pulling off their clothes to follow him.
‘Come on Tracy,’ Lisa chuckled. ‘It’s only a bit of fun.’
Tracy stared at her, embarrassed by her blatant nudity, and trying hard not to look at John in his own virgin state. ‘What if someone comes?’ she exclaimed.
For reply, Lisa ran on to the landing stage and jumped straight into a patch of clear water to one side of the reeds, and screamed at the cold. John smiled at Tracy and ran after her, hitting the water like a bomb.
Still Tracy hesitated, plucking at her anorak, but doing nothing else. ‘Tracy, you agreed,’ John called from the reeds. ‘Don’t be a chicken. Get your kit off.’
Tracy undressed slowly, dropping her clothes where she stood and removing her underwear only after further jibes from Josh and Lisa.
The water was icy cold and took her breath away as she lowered herself carefully into it, feeling the reeds clutching at her thighs and the slime out of which they sprouted forcing itself up between her toes.
Hands grabbed her round the waist, pulling her away from the safety of the shallows. She went under, then surfaced in a panic, coughing up filthy water and kicking out at Josh as he tried to grab her again, laughing hysterically.
‘Not funny,’ she gasped. ‘I’m getting out.’
She managed to swim back to the reeds and pull herself upright, using a corner of the overhanging hide for support, but a second later felt something brush her calf. ‘Josh, will you stop it,’ she yelled, reaching down to pull his hand away.
There was certainly a hand there, but it did not belong to Josh, nor did the ruined, half-eaten face and empty eye-sockets that stared up at her from just under the surface. And, as she shrank backwards in the water with a piercing scream, the rope that had held the twitcher’s body in place for so many days snagged on her leg, jerking the corpse up among the reeds as if it were in the act of rising out of the slimy water to greet her.
Detective Chief Inspector Ansell was poring over the post mortem report on Jennifer Malone when Doctor Norton stepped into the incident-room commander’s office and carefully closed the door behind him.
Ansell looked tired and drawn. Only days into what was now a double murder inquiry, he was beginning to wish he’d never been given the job in the first place. Everything seemed to be going pear-shaped. The ACC had made a point of emphasizing that fact at the meeting earlier and he nursed the growing apprehension that, if he and his boss weren’t careful, they would fare as badly as their predecessors on the original Operation Firetrap inquiry, both of whom had ended up on the career scrapheap. OK, so Willoughby was the SIO and, therefore, in theory carried the can, but the man was already known to be an absolute tosser which was why Ansell had been given the job of wet-nursing him in the first place. Whatever his illustrious leader did, he couldn’t really end up as any more of a tosser than he already was; the trouble was, if the ship went down with him on board, his DCI would go down with it and Ansell just couldn’t let that happen.
‘Nothing surprising here,’ he said wearily, pushing the reports away. ‘Malone died from a broken neck, as we all thought. We’ll have to wait and see what Taylor’s PM turns up when I pop over to the morgue,’ and he glanced at his watch, ‘in half an hour.’
Norton gave a cynical smile. ‘At least that’s something to look forward to anyway,’ he commented drily. ‘Will you be back for the afternoon briefing?’
The DCI nodded. ‘Shouldn’t take that long, and I don’t expect any real surprises with this one either. Just a formality really.’
Norton grunted. ‘Any luck with the bugs?’
Ansell frowned. ‘The technical support unit carried out quite a thorough sweep this morning,’ he said. ‘Found two of the little bastards concealed under desks. All Roscoe and his merry men have got to do now is find out where our eavesdropper is holed up. They’re on to that as we speak.’ He lifted his jacket from the back of t
he chair. ‘Still, I’d best be off. Don’t want to be late for the dismembering.’
‘Mr Willoughby not going?’
Ansell’s face twisted into a cynical knowing smile. ‘Mr Willoughby has gone to headquarters to see the Assistant Chief Constable,’ he said, resisting the temptation to add, ‘to sniff his shirt-tails and safeguard his career’, and saying instead, ‘Why do you ask?’
Norton hesitated, then asked, ‘Don’t suppose I could come instead?’
Ansell threw him a surprised glance. ‘It’s not very pleasant.’
Norton shrugged. ‘It won’t bother me. I’ve been to too many of these things before to be squeamish about them and seeing the PM usually enables me to improve my understanding of the killer by seeing his handiwork close up.’
Ansell held out an open hand towards the door, inviting Norton to precede him. ‘Be my guest then, Doctor,’ he said with a look of grim amusement and, jerking a packet of extra-strong mints from his pocket, he pressed it into the other’s hand. ‘Always carry a couple of packets with me,’ he explained. ‘Helps to take away the smell.’
Kate had picked up the call on her police radio as she and Lewis climbed back into the CID car after their guilt-laden lunch of steak pie and chips and the uniformed patrol officer was waiting for them at the entrance to the wildlife reserve car-park.
‘Got a stiff in the lake, skipper,’ the policeman explained grimly. ‘Some kids found it by the hide half an hour ago. Sergeant Casey’s there with them.’
The four youngsters in question were sitting quietly on the ramp leading up to the hide, another uniformed constable standing with them, and, although they were all now fully clothed, Kate saw that the hair of the two girls particularly was soaking wet and they were shivering. She cast them a brief reassuring smile.
Sergeant Len Casey was a former DC on the drug squad and he had seen many a sight in his fifteen years service, but his face was ashen now.
‘Last time they’ll go skinny-dipping,’ he said, leading Kate and Lewis over to the landing stage at the side of the hide. ‘Got a nasty shock, I think.’
The corpse was naked, not even a remnant of clothing attached to it, and the lower abdomen, part of one thigh and the face had been largely stripped of flesh. Kate noted the length of frayed rope tied tightly round the other thigh and a second shorter length around the corresponding upper arm.
‘Who got him out of the water?’ Lewis demanded.
Casey hesitated. ‘One of the officers who first attended,’ he said, but was not forthcoming with a name.
Kate sighed her irritation. ‘Should have left him in situ until SOCO got here,’ she commented. ‘He’s plainly very dead.’
‘My officer didn’t know that until he pulled him out,’ Casey retorted defensively, then nodded towards the four youngsters. ‘One of them called us on their mobile. Pretty plucky thing to do, considering they shouldn’t have been swimming in the lake in the first place.’
‘Any idea who he is?’ Lewis queried.
Casey shook his head. ‘And it’ll be a bit difficult trying to find out, the state he’s in,’ he pointed out unnecessarily.
Kate nodded grimly. ‘Oh I think we might be part way there,’ she said.
The sergeant stared at her. ‘You do?’
Kate grunted, thinking of the abandoned flask she had seized earlier in the week. ‘I think he was a twitcher, that his initials are RCJN and his car was stolen from the car-park back there before he was stiffed.’
‘And how the devil do you know all this?’
Kate threw Lewis a sideways glance and faced the sergeant again. ‘Elementary, my dear Casey,’ she said with heavy sarcasm. ‘That’s why we are detectives.’
chapter 19
ANSELL FOUND ROSCOE waiting for him in the cramped SIO’s office when he and Norton returned to the police station from the mortuary and Eugene Taylor’s post-mortem.
The DI had a satisfied gleam in his eyes and he pointed to a briefcase standing open on the desk. ‘Got a present for you, Guv,’ he said.
Ansell glanced into the briefcase and gave a low whistle when he saw the electronic equipment it contained, although, as an experienced investigator, he refrained from touching it. ‘So you found the receiver,’ he said softly.
Roscoe nodded, ‘SOCO will be collecting it shortly for fingerprinting and photographing.’
Ansell grunted. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘Derelict next door – upstairs bathroom.’
‘Next door? The cheeky sod.’
Roscoe grunted. ‘Yeah, and it seems I only just missed him.’
Ansell raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you know that?’
The gleam in the DI’s eyes intensified. ‘Lady of the press told me.’
‘Who?’
‘One Naomi Betjeman. She’s a reporter on the regional rag.’
‘Good name for a journalist,’ Norton cut in and was treated to blank looks. ‘You know – John Betjeman, the poet? Wonder if she’s a relative?’
The witticism was lost on Roscoe, while Ansell merely threw the psychologist an old-fashioned glance and turned back to his deputy. ‘So how did she know you’d just missed him?’ he went on heavily, his impatience with the DI’s bit-by-bit story beginning to show.
Roscoe’s face hardened. ‘She followed our man into the place apparently and nearly ended up as his next victim – lucky I arrived when I did.’
‘And where is she now?’
‘Downstairs. Interview-room one. Thought you would want a word with her.’
‘Damned right I do,’ Ansell retorted, ‘and right away.’
Roscoe cleared his throat. ‘Bit of a hard nut this one, Guv,’ he ventured. ‘No friend of the police and she’s got previous for rubbishing our investigations.’
Ansell gave one of his watery smiles. ‘Thanks, Ted,’ he acknowledged, heading for the door, ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Mind if I accompany you again?’ Norton said suddenly.
Ansell shrugged. ‘As you wish, Doctor,’ he said, ‘though I hardly think it will be a particularly riveting experience.’
But he was wrong about that.
Naomi was still pretty shaken up and the cigarette trembled slightly in her hand as she held it to her lips. Her glasses had fallen off in her struggle with the intruder and, although she had managed to recover them, they had been stepped on and the left-hand frame was broken and only held together by some Sellotape provided by the civvy manning the front desk at Highbridge police station.
Ansell gave her the once-over as he walked into the room, closely followed by Norton. Even from where she was sitting, Naomi caught the whiff of the psychologist’s strong perfume and she made a face, eyeing him with distaste. He returned her stare with a faint smile, his tinted glasses in one hand, while he polished the lenses with the other. His gaze fixed on her analytically, making her feel more than a little uncomfortable. The contrast between the ramrod straight Ansell, in his dark suit, college tie and shiny black shoes, and the slightly stooped, arty psychologist, with his collar length blond hair, green cords and blue suede shoes, could not have been more marked: at any other time Naomi would have found the duo a hilarious sight.
‘You’ve broken your glasses,’ Ansell commented, sitting down on the other side of the desk.’
‘I can see why you’re a detective,’ she replied sarcastically, watching Norton cross the room and deposit himself on the edge of a table holding what she knew to be interview recording equipment. ‘Is that thing on?’ she queried.
Ansell shook his head. ‘You’re not under arrest,’ he replied, ‘just—’
‘Helping you with your inquiries,’ she cut in before he could finish.
‘Quite so,’ and Ansell smiled. ‘Tea, coffee?’
She indicated a mug on the table beside her. ‘Already provided, thank you. Now, shall we get on, Superintendent?’
His eyes glittered for a second. ‘Detective Chief Inspector,’ he corrected.
‘He’s busy,’ he retorted. ‘You’ll have to make do with me. Now, I would very much like to know what happened to you this afternoon.’
She shrugged. ‘All I can tell you is that I was in the lane behind your nick’ – she wasn’t about to admit to being in the garden of the derelict – ‘and saw this character drive up to the place and climb through a hole in the fence. I was curious, so I followed him inside and then upstairs, but he was evidently lying in wait for me and he attacked me when I got to the landing. I managed to break loose and lock myself in an old bathroom and he ran off when one of your plods arrived.’
‘So, to the most important question, what did he look like?’
‘I haven’t the faintest. I never saw his face and he was wearing some kind of hooded coat with the hood up. Tall, powerful guy, though. He grabbed me round the neck from behind and I reckon if I hadn’t broken his grip, he would have twisted my head off.’
‘So that’s all you can tell us about him? Tall and powerful?’
She frowned, apparently thinking. ‘Well, there was something else, something that stuck in my mind, but I just can’t put my finger on it.’
‘OK, what sort of car was he driving?’
She thought again for a second. ‘A black Mercedes saloon – a big one – and, before you ask, no, I didn’t get the number.’
‘And what were you doing in the lane in the first place?’
‘Taking a stroll – any law against that, is there?’
Ansell sat back in his chair and studied her for a moment, perturbed by her blatant hostility. ‘Not as yet, no.’
She stubbed out her cigarette on the table and immediately lit another one. ‘Good. Now I’ve answered your questions, maybe you’ll answer mine?’
