Streamed to Kill

by Emmy Ellis

  “He isn’t, David. Not yet.”

  Conrad’s nose twitched. “I found a dead dog. Stank, it did. Some bastard had sliced up its belly. Who would do something like that, eh?”

  David didn’t know what to say. It felt like the contents of his body had seeped out and left him hollow. Like that dog. He stared at Conrad for a moment, gripping his knife and fork. Mr Clever hissed, giving him the nudge he needed to act normal. “You told the police about this? You didn’t just leave the dog there, did you?”

  “Yep, told the police.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “This end of the stream, where the bald bloke said he’d last seen her.”

  David went cold. He wondered whether Cheryl was as cold. Whether, if he went back and touched her, she’d freeze his fingers. Whether she’d understand from where she was in home-home, why he’d chosen her. Maybe he ought to do that next time. Tell them why they were there—but he didn’t know why himself.

  “Yes, you do, David.”

  “What time was that?” Why hadn’t Mr Clever warned him about Conrad before now? Why had he let them meet and make David think he could have a friend, only to have that friend taken away when something like this happened? He’d never abducted a man before, had never felt the need, but he might have to do that now. Snatch Conrad and make him go home-home.

  David’s head felt like it was going to burst. There was too much information inside it, things from back then and things from now, all vying for his immediate attention. And he couldn’t cope with both parts of himself, not at the same time. It sent him doolally.

  “About eight. I didn’t get home until after midnight, though. They wanted a statement, the police, and I swear they thought I had something to do with it at first. This detective asked questions about what I’d been doing, and I thought it was to trip me up, get me to admit something I hadn’t done—admit to being him.” Conrad shuddered. “Like anyone would want to be him. That man’s sick in the head.”

  I don’t like you saying that.

  “But in the end, they didn’t,” Conrad said. “Think it was me, I mean.”

  “How come? What changed their mind?”

  “That copper, Langham, he spoke to me. His associate got information—that psychic shit he does—that proves I’m not involved.”

  “What kind of information?” David hoped he’d just sounded interested, your average nosy parker.

  Conrad shifted in his seat as though excited. “He didn’t say, probably confidential, but the rozzers who spoke to me after him did say if The Weirdo has Cheryl, they’ll find her—and him.”

  * * * *

  David was having a dream but couldn’t pull himself out of it. It was one of those odd ones where you were conscious of reality yet the world in which you currently stood seemed just as real, just as vivid. He was in the living room of his childhood home, the velvet sofa opposite against the back wall, his mother sitting on it, staring at him with those muddy-brown eyes of hers. He was trapped, rooted to the spot by her unwavering glare.

  What have I done now? Why am I here? I haven’t been here for ages, since I started meeting the women. Everything was okay. What’s happened to make it different?

  “Why couldn’t you have been a girl, David?” the bogeywoman asked.

  Not that. Please, not that…

  “Why couldn’t I have had my little corn-blonde, green-eyed princess?”

  She had her legs crossed, one perfect, slim pin dangling over the other. She bounced the top one, the flesh of her calf barely spreading as it met the shin below. Her bleached hair was that corn colour she so wanted David to have. His father’s black had diluted her original brunette, producing a shade on their child that made him an inbetweener—something that didn’t fit into either category. Rather like himself. He was in-between everywhere, a boy who wanted to be a girl but with no real desire or gene to allow him to be female. He was a boy, with boy things on his mind—climbing trees, playing marbles in the dirt, kicking a football about—yet he’d been given that doll for his fifth birthday and was expected to wear dresses when he was at home.

  There’s something wrong with that, I know it, but I can’t tell her, can’t explain it to her because everything’s just so messy, so fuzzy. And she wouldn’t understand.

  “I don’t know,” he said, his usual, standard answer. He clenched his little boy fists at his sides, staring back at her with an adult mind in a child’s body.

  “You never know anything much, David. If you’d have been a girl you’d have known so much more. Girls are so clever.”

  No, they’re not. If they were, they wouldn’t get taken. I wouldn’t be able to do what I’ve done. I proved it, didn’t I? Proved that boys are cleverer?

  He’d best not to say anything in response to her statement. If he argued, she’d win. She always had in the past, so why would her being in his dream be any different?

  “Where’s Sally, David?” she went on without waiting for him to answer. “That’s what I would have called you if you’d been a girl.”

  He inwardly shrugged—couldn’t do it outright because she’d smack him for it. Smacks hurt, didn’t they? His skin was always so sore afterwards, on fire, the site of her strike a handprint of heat. Sometimes he couldn’t sit, had to lean over onto his other arse cheek, his underpants chafing over it—God, it brought tears to his eyes every time.

  He resisted shrugging again. She didn’t like shruggers. His father did it a lot, and it drove her mad, she said—or shouted, depending on her mood. She smacked Dad sometimes, too, right across the face, and once her sharp fingernails had brushed his father’s eyeball and he’d had trouble seeing properly for weeks. David understood the pain of that. Those fingernails regularly bit into the soft skin of his underarm, or on his face as she dragged him along, heading for the stairs and his room where she’d do more than smack him with her hand. She’d kick him, too.

  “You need to take good care of that dolly, David. She cost a lot of money.”

  Mother smiled, lips free of colour, eyelids and cheeks the same. She didn’t wear makeup—didn’t need it she was so beautiful. Yet she was ugly to him, her perfect features nothing but horrendous to look at. Dad said she hadn’t always been like this, that she’d changed when David had been born. And David wasn’t to take that to heart, all right? It wasn’t his fault, it was his mother’s. And as much as Dad had tried to stand up to her on his behalf, most of the time Dad had just sat back and let it all happen because he could never win. Never.

  The Sally in the Fire incident was a time when David…when he’d become well and truly lost. His father, as an anchor, had been cruelly taken away.

  “I’m not letting him have that doll anymore, Lisabeth! He’s a damn boy, not a bloody girl. Get over it!”

  Sally had sailed from Dad’s hand and into the fire, her round-eyed gaze changing to narrow as her eyelids had closed, melting. David had lunged forward, knowing he had to take good care of Sally like his mother had told him. Knowing if he didn’t save her, he’d have no one left—no one to cuddle at night or talk to if things got too bad—and Mother would belt him for not looking after Sally even though it was his father who had thrown her there.

  “You fucking bastard.” Mother had glided across the room much like Sally had, launching into Dad and knocking him onto the sofa, flapping her hands, raining those evil smacks down on him.

  David had burnt his hand getting his dolly out, but rolled Sally until the flames went away, and blew on her cheeks until the plastic cooled and she didn’t look so squidgy anymore.

  Mother had smacked on until Dad hadn’t move any longer, and she’d said something about a heart attack.

  Now, Mother brought David out of his reverie with a sharp clearing of her throat. He blinked to rid himself of the images in his mind, to dissolve the film of tears.

  “You’re a little bastard, David, and I’m tired of you now. Go away.”

  The room faded around him, but t
he hurt didn’t. It flared brighter than it had before, always did, the pain becoming more intense every time he saw her in his dreams. She lived in his head, inside his body, still directing everything he did and said, although he did a good job of shutting her out these days. Or had, until now.

  As he walked backwards out of that living room, the pull of consciousness tugging at his back like he tugged Sally’s musical cord, he thought about the newspaper and whether Cheryl’s discovery would get better coverage. If it did, at least someone was taking more notice. At least someone cared enough about him to tell the country a little of what he’d done. At least he’d be known as being clever.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Langham looked around the packed incident room. The night shift had stayed on for the meeting—easier to bring everyone up to date that way—and Oliver was at work at the newspaper. Those who had gone home yesterday and returned this morning appeared refreshed and ready to go. Their schedules would be busy, and what Langham had in mind meant the majority of them might need to do overtime. He’d possibly need a double team to make this go off without a hitch.

  Detective Fairbrother was currently going through everything that had happened overnight for the benefit of those not in the know. Langham had been through it with him already, so he centred his thoughts on what was to come tonight.

  It pained him to have to do something Villier had suggested—using her as bait—but if they were going to catch this man, they needed to orchestrate things so he did what Langham wanted, when he wanted.

  He’d been thinking about profiles earlier that morning. Many serial killers admitted after being caught that they’d enjoyed reading about what they’d done in the newspapers. Now might be the time to try to rile the killer with a paragraph designed to make their man act out of character, change his pattern. A snippet of coverage on Cheryl was in order. He had a press conference scheduled a bit later, and after this meeting he’d go and write down exactly what he wanted the killer to know.

  Villier wasn’t aware he was going to be taking her up on her offer. He’d soon see if she was all mouth and no trousers.

  “Right then,” he said when Fairbrother had finished. “It goes without saying that we’re keeping Miss Witherspoon’s situation under wraps. The information stays in here.” He swept an arm out to encompass the room. “And in here.” He tapped his temple. “Anyone found to have a loose mouth at this stage in the game will be severely reprimanded. It is crucial we stick to what myself and Detective Fairbrother discussed in my office earlier this morning—I’ll be going over that with you in a second. No one talks to the press, understand? No one. If you’re caught slipping out any information, just be aware you won’t be working on my team in the future, possibly reduced to mundane tasks downstairs. Like cleaning pissed-up prisoners’ puke. Maybe even losing your job altogether. You getting the idea?”

  Everyone murmured agreement.

  “It’s a privilege to be on this team, not something you’re entitled to, so remember that if you’re approached by reporters or your other halves at home try to get you to talk about it. No one’s indispensable—everyone’s easily replaced. This isn’t the same case as it was before. We had no clues and it was cold, but now it’s hot as fuck, and we need to work hard to make sure it doesn’t get any hotter. Which brings me to what we’re doing today and tonight. Day shift, you might want to ring home and let your people know you’ll be doing overtime, just in case we need you. Anyone who seriously can’t needs to let me know now so Detective Fairbrother can rearrange who is doing what.”

  He paused, looking at everyone in turn. No one raised a hand. No one sighed in frustration. Each face showed how determined they all were to see an end to this, to wrap it up and put it to bed.

  “Good. I’ll thank you now for your dedication because I won’t have time to do it until this is all over.”

  He glanced at Villier, who stared back with an expression showing her steely fortitude to be a major player in this case. She’d make a formidable detective, but he was fucked if she’d be on his team, his shift. If she made the grade, he’d put in a quiet suggestion to the chief that they worked on opposite teams, different hours. The least he saw of her the better. She wound him up.

  “Sergeant Villier suggested about being used as bait,” he said.

  He peeked at her to see if she appeared smug or shocked. As he’d suspected, smug. She knew damn well what was coming and would use it to her advantage at the next detective opening that her suggestion had been integral to this investigation—that it had secured the killer’s arrest. Still, there was no time to get pissed off about how she’d act in the future—more smugness, more ‘I told you so’—because they had limited hours and a lot to get sorted.

  “We’ll be taking her up on that offer—with a wig and contacts—using a K9 for authenticity. What the killer won’t know is that the dog is trained to attack with a simple click of the fingers and a one-word command. Any clue at all he’s our man, and he’ll be taken down.” He looked at Villier. “You’ll be wired, we’ll be listening. You’ll be watched, we’ll be in various locations—outside Morrisons in vehicles, in the forest. At no time will you be out of sight or earshot, understand?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, crinkling her crisp white shirt, her tie curving into a capital C.

  “You’ll need to come to my office to discuss the finer details later. Detective Fairbrother will be going home shortly for a quick nap then returning, but those others on the night shift only need to come in two hours earlier than usual. I’ll go over exactly where everyone needs to be in a moment, using this map here”—he pointed to one attached to a whiteboard—“and then those who are due to go home, go home. Those who need to stay will help with the setup process.”

  It took an hour to go over everything, and he felt sorry for those officers who were flagging, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. This fucker needed catching, and if they could draw him out tonight, all the better, but they’d send Villier out as bait every night until they caught him. A huge amount of man hours and power—and he doubted the budget would cover it—but he had no choice now. Money would have to take a back seat on this one since they were so close to catching him.

  With everyone off doing their assigned jobs, Langham walked through the main office and jerked his head at Villier, who followed him into the small kitchen. She leant her arse against the worktop and rested one arm beneath her breasts. She chewed at a thumbnail. Langham pretended he hadn’t noticed and put the kettle on, afterwards spooning coffee then sugar into two cups.

  She cleared her throat. “I know I come off as a pretentious bitch but—”

  “It’s okay, I get it.” He still didn’t look at her. Grabbed a cloth off the sink and wiped the sides instead.

  “You do?”

  He nodded. “Yep, woman copper in a male-dominated world. I know. I understand. Might not like the way you are, but I get it.” He watched her from the corner of his eye.

  She fiddled with her long fringe, winding it around her finger. “I don’t mean to come off like that, it just happens. I get this thing inside me that won’t allow for any softness.” She laughed quietly. “Probably afraid that if I do, someone will take advantage or won’t listen to my orders because I’m female.”

  The kettle boiled, and the switch snapped up.

  Langham poured water into the cups, set about adding milk. “You’re a sergeant. People ought to do as they’re told because of that, not because you don’t have a dick, pardon my bluntness.”

  “I prefer blunt.”

  “I’d gathered that.”

  He smiled at her then, and she smiled back, a proper grin, one with teeth and gums. She reached for the coffee he handed her, then he jerked his head again, walking without speaking until they went into his office and closed the door. He gestured for her to take a seat and sat in his chair, glad he’d cleared away the biscuits from yesterday, had got rid of the crumbs and that blo
ody fluff in the gouge. She’d have frowned at that had it still been there.

  “So you’re frightened,” he said. She liked blunt, she’d get it. “I understand that, too. And I also understand that it’s normal for you to feel this way even though it was your suggestion that you be used as bait. But, like I said back there, you’ll be monitored. From what Cheryl told Fairbrother during the night, he jabbed her with the needle then killed her dog before she lost consciousness. It won’t even get that far with our operation. It’ll be obvious who he is as soon as he approaches. We’ll give it about two hours, in case he’s watching. Lots of people take their dogs out for that amount of time. Any more, though, and we’re pushing it. He’ll know something’s up if he’s there somewhere, taking note of your movements.”

  “What if he’s not there tonight?” She sipped her coffee. Her hand trembled a bit.

  “Then we’ll return tomorrow evening. You’ll walk and play with the dog; the killer will hopefully think you’re new to the area or whatever. Doesn’t matter what he thinks on that score—so long as it looks normal, authentic, it’ll work. If you keep glancing at the road, Morrisons, or the forest, he might get suspicious. Many people walk with their heads down. They take a bit of time to have a think while their dog ferrets about on its own. Do that. We can let you know when someone’s approaching. Your earpiece is a bud—he won’t notice it if we use a long wig.”

  She took it all in, probably visualising it in her mind. She stared at the floor, finger still twirling that hair. “So if he approaches, what do I say? Is there anything you want me to say?”

  “No. Take it as it comes. Respond as you would if this wasn’t a setup and you were out and about and someone came along to chat you up.” He wondered how many men had chatted her up and if they’d received a sharp refusal. Then again, she might not be an uptight bitch all the time.

  “Right.” She let out a long, unsteady breath. “Right.”

  She was mentally convincing herself she could do this, he knew that. He’d be doing the same in her position. And it wasn’t like she had much time to get used to it either. No going home to sleep on it. She’d have a few hours then be dumped into the path of a madman.