“What the hell?”
“And he avoided CCTV. There was none around the address, and the footage we do have of Tristram’s car are so distant, they’re useless. We’ve been plotting Tristram’s movements. He drove from the city, the same forty miles as Asher.”
“You think the killer’s hitchhiking?”
Chad nodded. “It’s a possibility, or he got in their cars on the outskirts of the city. We’re asking for the public to phone us if there’s any suspicious behavior, or anyone walking along that stretch of road, or acting odd in the city. They’re not to stop, but drive home, then alert us.”
“How much is being released to the press?”
“We’re not making the burned numbers public, or what the killer does afterwards, using the victim’s possessions, their homes. All we’re saying is two men have been murdered, and we’re investigating all lines of enquiry.”
“Do you know anything else about the killer?”
Chad snorted. “I know he takes sugar in his coffee.”
“What?”
“There was a mug in the kitchen, his DNA on it. The mold had grown quicker from the amount of sugar left over at the bottom. He either takes two sugars, or three. Oh,” Chad said, pointing to Toby on the fridge. “And he doesn’t give a shit about dogs. He left two in that property to suffer for weeks, and they got euthanized a few hours ago. I just wanna know who he is. I want to look him in the eye to see if there’s any feeling, any emotion—he can’t have a shred of empathy for doing what he did.”
“Jesus, Chad, you seem more upset about the dogs than the people.”
“Killing people is one thing, but letting innocent, clueless dogs suffer makes me hate him even more.”
Neil gripped his shoulder. “Come on, your coffee’s done.”
****
Chad blew on the top of his coffee as he hurried along the corridor. It was nowhere near as nice as the ones he had at home; even comparing the taste was laughable. He looked up, saw Zac on the reception desk, and reasoned he had enough time to say a quick hello. He wasn’t expecting to slip on the floor and spill burning hot coffee down the back of his hand.
Chad looked down at the mud walked across the floor, clumps of it.
“What the hell?”
Zac glanced up. “The farmer’s in there.” He gestured to the window of a small interview room; Chad could’ve simply followed the muddy footprints to tell where he’d gone. The farmer stared at him, and he quickly looked away, turning enough for the farmer not to read his lips.
“What does he want?”
“He’s complaining about graffiti on his barn again.”
“It’s almost hypercritical, isn’t it, him reporting graffiti, and then traipsing mud, and God knows what else through the station.”
“Yeah. And when I went to the barn to see, it was hard to mask my appreciation. The barn’s a crumbled down mess. The artist at least did something good with it.”
“Not just a squiggle or someone’s name?”
“Definitely not. Kid’s got talent.”
“That’s if it was a kid.”
Zac looked thoughtful for a few seconds, then shrugged.
Chad got closer and put his coffee down on the reception desk. He wiped his sore hand on his jacket, then looked up at Zac.
“Have they moved you permanently to the front desk?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s good to see a bit of color has returned to your cheeks, and your pupils are back to normal.”
“I wasn’t expecting it. I couldn’t do what you do, see that on a weekly basis.”
Chad shrugged. “I’ve gotten used to it.”
“I said there was no way I wanted to work on the beat. I was most comfortable front desk, and that’s where they’ve stationed me, just like that. I don’t understand why more people don’t want this job.”
“It’ll get boring, trust me. You’ll long for exciting car chases, and then when you’re bored of that, you’ll crave drug busts, breaking down doors, and storming into a property, and when that gets tiresome, you’ll want to be a detective, hunting down killers.”
“What happens when you’re bored of that?”
“When it happens, I’ll let you know.”
Zac opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut and shifted his gaze to someone rushing their way.
“Excuse me.”
The snotty voice cut through Chad, nails on a chalk board. Zac slipped his professional face on and gave the man a reassuring smile.
“How can I help you, sir?”
“I’m Simon Gear, the director of Normandy Hospital, and I’m at the end of my tether. I’ve called, and complained, every day for weeks, but nothing’s been done about them.”
Zac frowned. “Who?”
“The homeless lot. They put patients off coming to appointments. They scare the staff—”
“When you say scare?” Zac asked.
“I mean, their presence, they don’t yell or crowd anyone, but still, you have to do something about them.”
“What are they doing exactly?” Chad asked.
“Standing in doorways under the heated lamps. Blocking exit and entry points into the hospitals. It’s unacceptable. Intimidating, a health and safely violation, not to mention, they look … they look…”
“Homeless? Have a heart. You don’t know what they’ve been through, what they might have escaped from.”
“And I don’t care. They’re a nuisance. Whatever issues they have in their lives, are not mine, or the hospital’s problem.”
“Where else are they meant to go?”
“I don’t know, I don’t care. Find a place for them. I just want them away from the hospital.”
Simon glared at Chad, and Chad glared back.
“Chad,” Zac hissed. “Maybe it’s time you go upstairs…”
He picked his coffee up from the counter. “Yeah, I’m going.”
As Chad ascended the stairs, trying not to spill his coffee, he thanked the universe he dealt with corpses, and not living, breathing, assholes. The thought made him laugh, and he spilled his coffee over his fingers for the second time.
****
“Asher Campbell’s number five, and Tristram Adam’s number four,” the DI said.
Tristram’s face was pinned to an adjacent whiteboard. His dark hair was braided, and his eyes were deep brown. His profile picture had been him and his precious dogs, but the DI opted for a picture without them. It irritated Chad since the dogs were also victims of the killer, but he didn’t protest. Beneath Tristram’s living face, was a photo of his dead one, next to that, the number four burned into his skin.
There was another board, with a distance between it and Asher and Tristram. The top of the board had a piece of paper with a question mark, then beneath, all they knew about the killer.
“We’ve got a clever killer, who has avoiding CCTV and witnesses down to a fine art,” Martin went on. “He’s got a thing for strangling, and fire-branding, and also a sweet tooth. He loves nothing more than using his victims’ bathroom products and going through their fridges.”
Chad grimaced. The killer had used Tristram’s shower, body wash, and razor, but with Asher, hunger had been on his mind. His fingerprints were found on the fridge door, the spread inside, and a half-eaten bit of moldy toast on a plate in the kitchen.
“We do have a footprint,” Kate said, pointing to the only bit of useful evidence on the board. “Not from inside the property but outside it, direction of the print is heading away from the address. We’ve run it through a prints database, pressure mainly to the heel, thin horizontal indents … not a trainer, not a boot, a shoe…”
“What size?” the DI asked.
“Ten.”
“The killer’s wearing a nice pair of shoes. That’s not a lot to go on,” Martin said.
The DI pointed back at Tristram’s board. “I sent family liaison officers to Tristram’s brother, Anthony, his closest relative geogra
phically, but they were turned away.”
“Turned away?” Kate asked.
“The first word that left his brother’s mouth when he found out he was dead was ‘good’. He asked for details, and if his death was being linked to anyone else. Our officer explained about the numbers on two victims, one being his brother, and how we think they are related. Then Anthony ushered the officers out of his property with a big grin on his face.”
“Grief affects people differently, I guess.”
Chad looked at Kate. “And sometimes people really don’t give a shit about each other.”
“Language, Chad.”
“Sorry, sir.”
The DI removed his stern look from Chad. “The point is there’s no love lost between the two brothers. Anthony and Tristram didn’t get on.”
“Vito thinks Tristram died a few weeks ago. Where was Anthony?”
“On a long, extended vacation. It all checks out, and the DNA isn’t a match. His is already on the system.”
“What for?”
“Stolen property.”
Chad frowned. “What did he steal?”
“One of Tristram’s dogs apparently, revenge for Tristram taking his game console, and breaking it, and that was in retaliation for Anthony wearing Tristram’s trainers on a night out. Anthony Adams is not our man.”
“There weren’t any drugs or alcohol in Tristram’s system,” Chad said. “Zac had to force entry, so our killer must’ve been invited in. They had a coffee, then for whatever reason, went up to the bedroom. Where the killer strangled Tristram.”
“Vito said the bruising, the damage to the neck, the crushed trachea, indicated the killers using his hands, both hands,” Gareth added.
Chad listened to Gareth, then continued, “The number four had traces of cigar ash. We’re still trying to match the brand, to the ash.”
“Both are males, Asher thirty-five, Tristram twenty-seven. There’s no links between them. They didn’t know each other, don’t have any mutual friends.”
The DI got up from perching on a desk and whipped his phone out. He pressed it to his ear, listened to whatever the caller had to say, then hung up.
“It’s hit the press.”
In unison, they lowered their heads. Martin even went as far to put his in his hands.
“Who?” Kate asked.
The DI sighed. “My money’s on Anthony Adams. They were always feuding over money, and now it looks like he’ll get his money back by exploiting Tristram’s death.”
“Can family really be so heartless?”
A bitter laugh slipped free of Chad’s lips, and everyone looked at him.
The DI tore his gaze away, directing his next words to Kate. “Looks that way, and our killers got a nickname, curtsey of Journalist Marc Wilson for the Canster Times.”
“Dare I ask?” Chad mumbled.
“We’re on the hunt for The Countdown Killer.”
Chad hoped the cars he heard outside the station were his imagination. Kate strolled over, looked down, then cursed.
“It’s amazing how fast they get here.”
“The press, nothing but parasites feeding off misfortune,” Martin said to his hands.
The DI nodded. “It’s certainly going to make things more difficult.”
Chapter Four
“Listen to this,” Martin said. “‘The Countdown Killer is playing cat-and-mouse with the police, and it’s a race against time for them to catch him. Will you be number three?’”
Chad looked up from his computer. “Is he writing the blurb to a goddamn book?”
Martin huffed, then lifted up the paper for Chad to see. “Look, he even kindly put an image of the numbers 5 and 4, just in case we were confused and didn’t know what they looked like.”
“And he put flames behind them, in case we were unsure what fire looked like, too. He doesn’t give much credit to his readers, does he?”
“Grade A journalist, the ‘A’ standing for asshole.”
The DI stood up from his desk inside his officer and strode out the door. “I’m more annoyed by the untrue details he’s spreading.”
“You mean, ‘The killer brands his victims with a hot iron, so hard the bones beneath are stained by the impending countdown’.”
Chad groaned. “God, could it get worse?”
“‘The force of his choking hands breaks necks’. Or how about, ‘the killer raped his victims in their bedrooms, then strangled them to death’, or ‘he strangled them, then raped them’. The journalist changes his mind which way ‘round the killer does it.”
The DI sneered. “I had to make a public statement after those articles. No rape occurs.”
“I wonder where he got that idea?”
“They were both killed in their bedrooms,” Chad said. “Typical journalist, puts two and two together and ends up—”
“With a load of bullshit,” Martin finished.
The DI didn’t scold him for cursing but nodded instead. “Every day a new article comes out in the Canster Times, and it’s been weeks since we found number four. The papers just report nonsense to line their pockets, but I’ll be honest with you, I’m sick to death of those vultures outside shouting at me every time I leave the station. Following me home and sleeping in their cars outside my house. I can’t even take the bins out without them snapping their cameras and jeering at me. My wife’s sick of it, has taken the kids to her mum’s to wait this case out, and who knows how long that’ll be.”
“We’ll get him,” Chad said. “We will.”
“The public have no faith in us to catch him, especially with these damning articles coming out every day,” the DI said, snatching the paper from Martin. “Both of our victims drove out of the city the night they died. They both traveled the same stretch of road to get to their respective homes.”
Martin nodded. “But no one’s reported anyone walking along that road. We’ve looked, patrol cars have driven back and forth. Where would he even come from? It’s fields, ditches, hedges, trees.”
Chad rubbed his chin. “What if he’s hiding out, waiting in the trees?”
“Someone would have noticed him…”
“Maybe the ones that did, ended up dead.”
“But it’s been raining. If he was standing in the mud it would’ve got on his shoes. We’d have samples in the cars, on the doormats.”
“Just in case, Chad, Martin,” the DI said, “I want you to drive that forty-mile stretch, search all the wooded areas, see if there’s any sign of someone staying there, a tent, food packets, water bottles, clothing.”
“People throw that stuff out their cars all the time,” Martin huffed.
The DI ignored him and pressed on. “The killer used their bathroom, and their kitchen. Maybe he doesn’t have much of his own.”
“What, he’s killing because he’s homeless?”
“Not because he’s homeless, but he’s a killer and he’s homeless. Can you just get over there please?”
Chad answered for both of them. “Yes, sir.”
“We need something solid; we need to give the whole of Berkshire some faith in us before we lose them completely to the Canster Times.”
****
Chad drove along the road, darting looks either side in the hope he’d see something of interest. There was nothing but long grass, and trees.
“They both drove along this strip of road the night they died,” Martin mumbled.
“You checked along this road after we found Tristram, right?”
Martin nodded. “I was looking for tire marks on the verge, thought he might have pulled over to pick up the killer, but no marks, no mud on the tires either.”
“What about on the floor in the back of the car?” Chad asked.
“No soil in the car, or on the door mat at Tristram’s house. Lots of dog feces, but no soil sample.”
Chad hummed and gestured to the trees. “Might as well start here.”
Martin nodded and slowed the car. He pu
lled up in the verge, and the wheels screeched in protest. Chad shot him a wide-eyed look.
“That didn’t sound good.”
Martin climbed out the car and looked at his front wheel. Grass had wrapped around it, tangling through the hubcap.
“So I don’t think anyone pulls up in the verge,” Chad muttered. “I don’t remember hearing about grass wrapped around their tires. Come on, let’s search over there.”
He led the way, and they disappeared into the first line of trees. There were potato chip packets, drink cans, and even a kid’s shoe. Martin kicked it, then shook his head.
“Why is it only ever one shoe, hey?”
Chad shrugged. “No idea.”
There was no tent, or sleeping bag, or clothes, or anything that suggested someone was living in the small wooded area. Chad pushed on until he got to the other side of trees, then looked out over the field.
“Our killer’s not hiding in here then,” Martin muttered.
“Doesn’t look like it.”
Chad glanced down at his feet and tilted his head when he noticed footprints. He bent down and circled his finger over the marks.
“Look at this.”
Martin crouched down next to him. “Wellington boots, that’s expected.”
Chad nodded. “But what about these?”
There were other footprints, one set with a distinctive pattern.
“Running shoes,” Martin said.
Chad looked at him. “What?”
“I recognize the logo. There’s other prints, too. They’re all slim like trainers. Look here there’s even pawprints.”
“This is a popular stretch, between the trees, and the field.”
“It’s a public footpath.”
“How do you know that?”
Martin pointed, and Chad followed his finger to the tall gray post, and the green sign.
“Public footpath.”
“Where’s the nearest village from here?” Chad asked.
“Histon.”
“That’s seven miles away.”
Martin snorted. “Some people are passionate about running.”
“Okay, that might explain the runners, but what about the dog walker?”
One for Sorrow Page 3
