The Sandman

by steve higgs

  Neither he nor I had any idea what the time might be. He arrived home at close to four this afternoon and was grabbed minutes later. It had to be after midnight now I felt sure, but in the dark, and with no way to track the passage of time, it could be morning or afternoon or … well, you get the picture.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I asked for maybe the fiftieth time.

  I’d been listening to him pant and struggle for a while and remembered how exhausting I found the task. Having arrived home in his uniform, he had copper’s boots on still so unlike my ankles, where the Sandman foolishly tied the ropes around my boots to leave me wiggle room, Jan’s ropes were above the boots and wriggling did nothing but chafe his skin. He’d taken the boots off, but it made little difference to the task.

  With a gasp to get his breath back before speaking, Jan said, ‘I just can’t get the ropes on my legs to shift. I’ve switched to work on my wrists. The duct tape is coming away slowly, but I can’t find the end so I’m having to gnaw through it.’

  I could only imagine how tough the task was in the dark. It had been hard enough for me and I could see what I was doing. A yawn split my face. Lasting for seconds, I started to feel like I might be asleep before it stopped.

  I was desperate to lie my head down and just get a little nap. I even had an argument raging in my head because getting some sleep might be the best thing I could do.

  Just as I considered that Jan would be able to wake me easily enough if he needed to, I heard a noise coming from above. It was the first time there had been any sound since I first arrived. It jolted me, sending ice through my veins and cramps to my core. Jan froze too, all sounds of his struggle stopping abruptly.

  Someone was coming.

  Ramsey Mitchell. Everything According to his Plan. Saturday, December 24th 0217hrs

  Taking Karen Gilbert had been easy enough. Tempest Michaels led them straight to her just as he hoped. Soon she would sleep but it was too late now to perform the ceremony this night. If he were to sing her to sleep, it would have to wait until the sun set again.

  That it was now Christmas Eve mattered not one bit. If anything, the timing was more perfect for it. His acolytes were feverish with excitement at the prospect of saving three new lives. He would attend to Karen himself, but had decided to reward his senior circle with the honour of bestowing graceful slumber on the other two.

  In so doing, he would, in a sense, elevate those involved and cause those who were not yet deemed worthy to clamour ever more for his favour. They would work harder than ever.

  Besides, Jane Butterworth did not resemble his precious Valerie and as for the young police officer, well … he had to die simply because he was involved. Taken as a precaution to make Jane comply in case Tempest did not lead him to Karen Gilbert, his kidnap ultimately proved unnecessary. Such is the nature of taking precautions – one can never tell what issues may or may not arise.

  Pausing at the door that led to the cells, he cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention.

  ‘Gentlemen, when we open the door, we must take care not to harm our guest. She has escaped from her cell and may be in a state of agitation.’ A ripple of murmurs passed through his followers. ‘Yes, yes, I know. She ought to have accepted the grace of our blessing and remained in her slumber room. Please take care to treat her gently and be prepared for her to attempt a physical assault.’

  A voice asked, ‘Do we subdue her, master?’

  ‘Yes, but do so gently. We wish her no harm remember. I will administer the sleep serum myself.’ Mitchell tapped his pocket to confirm his bottle of etorphine was still there before saying, ‘Open the door.’

  The lights inside the basement flickered on as they came in, the Sandman using the sudden harsh white light to blind Jane and disorient her. His acolytes swarmed in, all bar the two carrying Karen Gilbert’s limp form.

  Walking with calm strides as his men rushed forward, Mitchell got to watch as Jane flailed and fought. She was strong for a woman, he observed, and appeared to have been given some fight training.

  Though blinking against the light and attempting to shield her eyes, she lanced out a fist that connected with a chin. One of his acolytes jerked backward from the blow and another caught a swinging foot somewhere he really didn’t want it. The outrushing whoosh of air sufficient to let everyone know the blow found its target.

  Inevitably, that was all she got before the volume of arms and hands pinned her to a wall. She squealed in terror and anger, thrashing violently as he approached, the bottle of etorphine in one hand and a syringe in the other.

  Foul language spat from her lips, and her boyfriend, still trapped in his cell bellowed his outrage too.

  Soothingly, he reached out his left hand to stroke her blonde hair. ‘It will all be over soon, Jane. You have served your purpose well.’ Mitchell stepped to his left, providing a clear view down the corridor where Karen Gilbert hung between two of his men. ‘Look who we have brought to celebrate with you.’

  ‘No.’ The word slipped from between Jane’s lips like a moan of denial. It acted like the last straw, the tall, thin woman sagging between her captors as the fight went from her.

  A short while later, all three of his honourees were securely back in the slumber rooms where they could rest until it was time for their ascension. All were drugged and would remain so for many hours, but as Ramsey Mitchell walked away, intent on dealing with the Blue Moon team, there were several things he didn’t know.

  One of those things was the object Jane had tucked in her boot.

  Quinn. Learning from a Master. Saturday December 24th 1127hrs

  ‘This is good work, Ian. Well done.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Terrible business in Harrietsham though,’

  Chief Inspector Quinn’s lips twitched in annoyance. ‘Yes, sir.’ The chief constable for Kent had visited him in person, a sure sign that he saw political gain in being associated with the successful conclusion of the Sandman case. Quinn chose to use the name Tempest Michaels coined and sell it as his own. Now that he’d seen the evidence, including that which he’d confiscated from the Blue Moon office, he knew the press would see why it was such a good name for the serial killer he’d discovered, and they would love it.

  There was a certain catchiness to the name that would capture headlines and the public’s imagination.

  Karen Gilbert being taken was not part of the plan though.

  ‘You’re certain it is the work of this so-called Sandman?’ Chief Constable Vickery wanted to know.

  Quinn had already assured the man it was, but if the big boss wanted him to say it again, he would. The promotion board’s next meeting was right around the corner after all.

  ‘Yes, sir. She was victimised by Ramsey Mitchell, a man we now know to have more than a dozen aliases. My team were able to establish a pattern of behaviour that saw him purchase properties close to each of his victims. Sometimes, as was the case with Miss Gilbert, he was able to buy the house next door. At this time, we are unsure what his motivation for the murders might be, but we believe he has been killing since 1984 with at least one victim each year.

  The chief constable’s eyebrows shot to the sky. ‘How did he go undetected for so long, man?’

  Quinn skewed his lips to one side before answering. It gave him time to think about how likely it was that his own failings might be discovered. Several of the missing women had passed through his hands as cases he dismissed. A missing woman was not a murder and therefore not headline news. He wanted cases he could solve, not open-ended messes that would tarnish his amazing record.

  Knowing his boss was waiting for an answer, he said, ‘I believe he was able to ensure we never found the bodies.’

  Chief Constable Vickery challenged his answer instantly. ‘What about River Tam?’ His eyes were narrowed at his subordinate. He’d heard about Quinn and knew the man’s father when he served. He’d been an ambitious man and the son seemed no different. There was
nothing wrong with that; he hadn’t risen to be chief constable by failing to take advantage of the chances when they arose. However, if Quinn was trying to pull the wool over his eyes, he was going to find his ambitions halted sharply.

  ‘Yes, sir. I believe River Tam to be the outlier. You will recall, no doubt, that the investigation into her murder was conducted by Chief Constable Beattie. I believe he did a stalwart job,’ Quinn added quickly in case his boss thought he was trying to deflect. ‘I’m certain I could have done no better,’ an outright lie, ‘and, of course, there were no other bodies to suggest this was a serial killer. I believe the other bodies are most likely buried, sir. River Tam was found by a farmer not long after she was murdered. I believe it will be proven that Ramsey Mitchell was disturbed before he could inter her body.’

  The chief constable pursed his lips and considered Quinn’s explanation.

  ‘Perhaps. Listen Quinn. It’s good work, like I said, but there is no time to rest. One of your officers is missing still and now Miss Gilbert. The press have got hold of it already and I have to face them shortly. I’ll be assuring them we are doing everything we can to catch this blighter and you are going to make sure that is true.’

  Listening to hear what else the chief constable might have to say, Quinn suddenly realised his boss was waiting for him to agree. ‘Of course, sir. I will be throwing all we have at rescuing Miss Gilbert and PC Van Doorn.’

  ‘And the other fellow,’ Chief Constable Vickery reminded his subordinate.

  ‘James Butterworth. Yes, sir.’

  ‘What are you doing with that Michaels character?’ the chief constable wanted to know. ‘The press are going to ask. They love him, you know. He’s like some kind of folk hero. Like Robin Hood or something.’

  Quinn dropped his gaze to the floor and scrutinised the carpet for a few seconds. Never had Tempest Michaels been more of a problem to him.

  ‘He broke the law, sir.’

  ‘In pursuit of a serial killer, Chief Inspector. The press will have a field day if you charge him.’

  Quinn’s head snapped up, startled at his boss’s attitude. ‘You want me to let him get away with it? That would be tantamount to promoting vigilantism, sir.’ Was he being tested? The chief constable couldn’t want him to set Tempest Michaels and his accomplices free, surely? What possible upside was there?

  ‘Focus on the case, Chief Inspector,’ advised the chief constable, his tone fatherly. ‘If your team gets a lucky break and find the Sandman in time, I am sure no one will care what happens to Tempest Michaels. However, as I understand it, your officers have raided a dozen properties currently owned by Ramsey Mitchell and are yet to yield a single clue as to his current location. If the bodies of Karen Gilbert, James Butterworth, and Constable Van Doorn are tomorrow’s headline news, who will they blame?’

  The subtext hidden in the question hit Quinn like a sucker punch to the gut. Letting Tempest Michaels go was a win-win situation. He could charge them all and release them under caution. Should any of them do anything that sailed even close to breaking the law, he could slam them back into a cell and be guaranteed of a conviction. Better yet though, with Tempest on the outside, he could be certain the man would get straight back onto the hunt. He would even tell Michaels not to, that was bound to make him try twice as hard.

  Then, when they inevitably failed to catch the serial killer in time to stop the next round of victims, Quinn could claim the Blue Moon team got in the way, messed with evidence, and ruined his chance of a successful conclusion.

  It was genius. Quinn felt like giving a bow to acknowledge his boss’s clear thinking. The fact that the chief constable had issued no order on the subject further demonstrated how much Quinn still had to learn.

  That was what it took to get to be the chief constable.

  Invigorated anew, Chief Inspector Quinn returned to his office ready to do what had to be done. It went against the grain to let Tempest Michaels go now that he had a legitimate reason to see him serve at Her Majesty’s pleasure, however, the chance to use the daft paranormal investigator as a tool for his own advancement was too tempting.

  Besides, maybe Tempest Michaels would lead him to the Sandman. It wouldn’t be the first time the private eye had defied the odds to solve a case.

  Tempest. Cautioned and Released. Saturday, December 24th 1206hrs

  The sleep I knew I ought to grab refused to come for many hours. Processed, stripped of my possessions, and stuffed into a cell in the back of Maidstone station, I was just about angry enough to chew my way out.

  The ball of fury in my gut fought for space with the worry I felt for Jane. I’d never believed the Sandman would allow her to live through the night and nothing about that had changed. Held by him and probably unable to do anything about the situation she found herself in, I could do nothing but stew on my failings.

  Sleep came eventually, the monotony of incarceration coupled with fatigue forcing my brain to shut down at some point well after midnight.

  Quinn never came. His promise to interview us himself either a lie, or an excuse to make sure no one else did it. He would get to me when he was good and ready, that was the message. Had he gone home last night and slept in his own bed while I festered here?

  I thought the answer was probably not. He was hard on the case of a serial killer and would want it to be seen that he was throwing himself at it. He would work longer hours and flog himself in a bid to prove his effort in the face of failure. And it would be considered a failure even if he now caught the Sandman because Jane and Jan would be dead.

  I figured the time had to be something close to noon. The awful tray of lukewarm breakfast had been served many hours ago, an unpleasant young constable with a dour attitude had posted it through the slot and woke me from my slumber.

  I asked him the time and got a stupid response in return.

  ‘Time you bought a watch,’ the man’s voice had echoed back along the corridor outside.

  The tiny slit of hatch opened again now, a set of eyes visible as the officer outside checked to make sure I wasn’t poised to attack. To my surprise, the sound of the lock opening then followed.

  ‘Get up,’ a man’s voice commanded. ‘You’re being released.’

  I shot off the bed. ‘Released?’

  ‘Yup. You’ll receive a formal caution first. The Chief Inspector wants to see you all.’

  He stood to one side so I could leave the cell, his words reverberating in my ears as I slipped around the door. They were letting us go.

  It made no sense. Quinn wanted to lock me up. He’d been waiting for a decent opportunity for ages. He had one two days ago and could have pursued the charge of firearms possession if he’d chosen to. Two days ago, we had been on better terms, but lying in my cell, I felt sure he would lump that charge in on top of the breaking and entering, wilful destruction of property and whatever else he could cobble together. It might not all stick, but enough of it would that I was looking at a jail sentence.

  Now he was letting me go. I felt elated but also troubled by the news.

  In the corridor that links the cells, I saw Big Ben being led away too. The officers took us from the cells and back into the police station proper where we were directed toward a row of interview rooms.

  A sergeant I didn’t recognise was inside waiting for me. He dealt with the official task of reading me my caution and I had to sign to acknowledge that I understood it. With that done, we had to wait for Chief Inspector Quinn to arrive.

  I was itching to get out, my legs twitching with impatience to get back to the task of finding the Sandman. Quinn kept me waiting. At least now there was a clock so I could see how much of my life he wasted.

  At 1247hrs, he finally waltzed into the room, a breezy smile on his face and a cup of tea in his right hand. He was taking a sip as he closed the door. It made me want to slap the mug across the room. Or maybe see if I could punch it clear through to the other side of his skull.

  ‘Mr M
ichaels, I appreciate your patience.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ I argued. ‘What are you up to?’ When he shot me an innocent face, I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘I know you too well to believe you have the slightest concern about making me wait. Usually you do it on purpose because you are smallminded and petty and feel some desperate need to score points.’

  Basically, I kept throwing insults in his face until the usual version of Ian Quinn returned.

  ‘All right, Mr Michaels, you want to cut through all the nonsense, that’s fine by me. I’ll tell you why I am letting you go. Right now I have you on a few charges. I could make them stick and you would probably do some time. It wouldn’t be much though, a few weeks perhaps and a lenient judge might take into account your military service and the extenuating circumstances that led you to smash your way into a house. That being the case, you might get community service and walk away from the court laughing.’

  I kept my face still. He couldn’t make the firearms charges stick. That had to be the case because if he could, he would be throwing the book at me and no judge would let me off so lightly. He didn’t have the evidence, just a hunch he couldn’t prove.

  ‘I don’t like being laughed at, Mr Michaels, so here is what is going to happen. You have already been formally cautioned have you not?’

  The sergeant replied on my behalf, ‘He has, sir.’

  Quinn nodded to himself. ‘I am going to release you and because you cannot help yourself, you are going to do something illegal. You always do, Mr Michaels. You have been slipping through my net for months now, but no more. The next time you voluntarily cross the line, I will make sure you go away for a proper spell. Perhaps when you get out, you will have gained some respect for this land’s laws.’

  A broad grin split my face. Quinn is most likely unaware of it, but he has a tell. When he lies, which he does a lot, he sucks on the left corner of his bottom lip in between sentences or whenever he pauses to think.