by LJ Ross
“Whoever killed her is still out there.”
CHAPTER 4
The remainder of the afternoon was spent overseeing the transfer of Sharon Cooper’s body to the mortuary, where the police pathologist had given up his day of rest to begin the painstaking process of understanding how she had come to die. The CSI team rustled around her house in their polypropylene overalls searching the minutiae for traces of her killer, unravelling the fabric of her life and laying it bare, while a team of local constables knocked at every door on the street and took preliminary statements from her neighbours. They were only too glad to cooperate since the threat of police caution remained uppermost in their minds but, unfortunately, none of them had seen Cooper that day nor any unusual visitors or strange vehicles parked on the road.
Whoever had killed ‘that lovely policewoman at number seven’ had managed to come and go like an apparition.
“It was always a long shot,” Phillips said, leaning back against the side of Ryan’s car. “It’s a Sunday. You can’t expect people to be peeping through their curtains jotting down registration plates at eleven o’clock in the morning.”
Ryan grunted.
“I didn’t notice any CCTV on the road,” Phillips continued, “but we’re not far from the high street. There might be something we can get hold of there.”
Ryan nodded, considering the access points.
“Plenty of local businesses nearby. Let’s check with them, too.”
They watched the CSIs carry a large, industrial film light from their inconspicuous black van towards the tent they’d erected outside Cooper’s front door. It was almost six o’clock and daylight was starting to fade.
“Check the bus routes and the metro,” Ryan said. “It’s only a five-minute walk to the station from here. Who knows? We might get lucky.”
“Consider it done,” Phillips said, and reached for his packet of cigarettes once again. The tobacco fizzed orange as he took a long drag, which should have gone some way to calming his nerves but had the opposite effect instead.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began.
“A dangerous proposition,” Ryan replied automatically.
“Aye, I know. I’ve been thinking about the style. It’s the same—isn’t it?”
Ryan didn’t need to ask what he meant. The dismemberment of their colleague bore a marked resemblance to the state in which Isobel Harris’s body had been discovered, two weeks earlier.
The implications were terrifying.
“We need the pathologist to confirm,” Ryan said eventually. “We have to be as sure as we can before we head down that path.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets and thought of what led a man to hurl himself from a great height. Fear? Desperation? Perhaps there was some guilt mixed in there, too.
“Cooper threw the full force of the law at John Dobbs,” he thought aloud. “She believed with every fibre of her being that he was the one who’d killed Isobel Harris. The public still believe it. Half of them are congratulating us, while the other half vilify us for driving a man over the edge and denying a family their rightful day in court. But, most of all, they believe we got our man and they’ve started to relax again, to walk home alone again without being frightened about who might be following. We need to be one hundred per cent sure of ourselves before we come out and say that the person who killed Isobel Harris also waltzed into Sharon Cooper’s home and did that”—he bobbed his head towards the house on the other side of the road—“because, if it is the same person, that means an innocent man threw himself off the bridge today, Frank.”
Phillips took another drag of his cigarette.
“It could still be a copycat,” he said, a bit desperately. He’d known Sharon Cooper for over ten years; she’d been friendly with his wife and brought flowers to the hospital before she died. “It could be some opportunist, or someone holding a grudge.”
Ryan looked him squarely in the eye.
“You know as well as I do that the details of how we found Isobel Harris’s body weren’t made public. Yet somebody copied her killer’s MO almost down to the letter. Look, nobody wants to damage Cooper’s reputation, but we can’t overlook the possibility that she made a mistake. It may have been the biggest mistake of her life.”
A few seconds ticked by while Phillips took a final, long drag of his cigarette and then ground it out with the heel of his shoe.
“Howay, let’s find the bastard,” he said.
* * *
The city was pleasant on a summer’s evening.
There seemed to be a new energy in the air, a sense of relief that was palpable now that John Dobbs, the ‘killer on the bridge’, was gone. People strolled through the streets with less urgency than before, now that his blight had been brought to an end and the precarious balance between good and evil had been restored.
Or so they told themselves.
He watched them walk along the park avenue like sheep, bleating about their mundane jobs and banal lives, and wondered what it would be like to be so completely ordinary. There would be a simplicity to life, he supposed. A kind of comfort in being so ignorant, so commonplace. He couldn’t blame them for that. He could be generous and allow them a small concession because they did not ask to be part of the masses; it was the luck of the draw. It was the natural order of the world that some must be predators and others the prey.
Idly, he watched a woman enter the park on a pair of improbable cork wedges that were at least a half-size too small. He watched her glance across at him and flick back her hair, thrusting her chest forward in an age-old dance he recognised and had used many times to his advantage. He gave her a lazy smile, schooling his face into the appropriate lines as he considered her attributes like butcher’s meat.
“Too short and too blonde, for starters,” he mused. He preferred his women to be au naturel. “Chunky thighs, probably doesn’t exercise. Under-developed arms, dry skin.”
She was smiling now, he realised, one of those coy smiles intended to convey innocence and inveigle men.
The thought was nauseating.
Even if he could forgive her various physical imperfections, he could scarcely overlook her abominable taste in clothes. She wore an over-tight denim skirt designed for a much younger woman and a clingy vest top that left little to the imagination. Her breasts swung like udders and he began to think it was almost worth putting her down as a supreme act of kindness.
She mistook his regard and sauntered across to the bench, settling herself beside him before making a great show of crossing her legs. The action drew attention to the mottled cellulite covering her exposed skin and he began to shake, revulsion snaking its way over his skin.
“Anybody sitting here?”
“Just you, beautiful,” he said, with a flirtatious wink.
She giggled, and he checked the time on his watch.
Nearly six-thirty.
“I think I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?”
There was a momentary clutch in his chest, a tightening of the intercostal muscles, before he remembered it was just the kind of inane small-talk that men and women exchanged.
“I’m sure I’d have remembered seeing you,” he replied.
She flushed with pleasure and he began to feel tainted by her presence, the stench of her skin beginning to overpower him.
He must not lose control.
A gaggle of young women passed by the bench where they sat. He studied them critically, watching their animated faces, trying to imagine what their eyes might look like as they died.
It would be so easy.
His hands began to shake, nothing more than a tremor but it was enough to remind him to be careful. The temptation was not worth the risk and it wouldn’t do to become greedy.
Besides, he’d know her when he saw her. She was due any moment now.
He checked the time again and smiled.
“—did you?”
He realised the ugly blonde woman was still s
itting there talking to him. His patience was exhausted, and his mind was occupied elsewhere. A game of cat and mouse to pass the time no longer held any appeal.
Time for her to move on.
He turned to look at her, skimming his intense gaze over the planes of her face, noting every crack and flaw. She blossomed beneath such an appraisal and wondered if, this time, she had found a prince.
He leaned forward, confidentially.
“You know, darling, if you lost about half a stone and went to a decent hairdresser, somebody might be interested in you. It wouldn’t hurt to have your teeth looked at, either, but I’m probably being pedantic.” He watched her face fall into lines of confusion and hurt, all the fuel he needed.
“You can’t have thought I’d be interested in you?” he asked, gently. “Did you really imagine I could look at you and feel anything but pity? Really, sweetheart, there’s a pecking order in all things.”
Her eyes filled, and he watched her bear down, willing herself not to cry as she snatched up her bag, almost tripping over her preposterous shoes in her haste to get away.
Once the amusement faded, he turned his attention back to the gates of the park.
“She’s late,” he breathed, tapping an angry forefinger against the side of the bench. “She’s never late.”
The anticipation was exquisite, almost painful, and he began to worry he’d missed her while he was entertaining himself with the blonde. Timing was critical.
If he’d missed his chance…
Just then, he spotted her. A quick flash of long, dark hair bundled in a high ponytail that swung from side to side as she walked past the entrance to the park. There was a natural spring in her step, an infectious joie de vivre that had caught his attention weeks ago.
She was alone, just as he expected she would be.
Casually, he stood up. He stretched out his back in an unhurried motion, rolling out his shoulders before strolling towards the gates. He didn’t bother to keep his head down; that would look suspicious. Besides, there was no need.
The cameras hadn’t worked in months.
Once he passed through the gates and onto the pavement lining the road parallel to the park, she had crossed over to the other side. He anticipated that and lengthened his stride a fraction to keep up, whistling beneath his breath. The next part was trickier. She lived on an exposed street, in a garden flat with its own front door, accessible via a short flight of stairs in full view of anyone happening to pass by. Luckily, the street was busy enough to be inconspicuous; the kind of place where people came and went without ever stopping to notice what was happening around them.
But there would be no need to worry about anybody witnessing anything unusual. By his reckoning, she was going to invite him in of her own accord and nobody would be any the wiser.
Swiftly, he crossed the street to intercept her.
“Hey, Nicola!”
She spun around, a smile already lighting up her face.
“Oh, hello!”
“I thought it was you,” he said. “Heading home?”
She gave a light shrug.
“Yeah, I’m off on holiday for a week and I need to finish packing.”
“Sounds great. Well, I won’t hold you up. Nice to run into you.” He began to step away and affected a self-conscious air she found endearing.
“Are you heading my way?”
He was so close now, so terribly close.
“Ah, I don’t know. I’m heading along Claremont Road, a friend of mine’s having a barbecue,” he improvised.
“Sounds nice,” she said as she fell into step beside him. “I live along that way, so we can keep each other company.”
She was so trusting, so ready to think the best of him, he almost regretted what was about to happen.
That was a lie.
He could hardly wait.
He kept her chatting all the way. He made her smile, made her believe she was safe. That was the most important part of all, he had learned. They must never suspect what was coming. He must never alert them to the danger and risk a scene. He’d learned that lesson before and didn’t care to exert himself unnecessarily.
“This is me,” she said.
They stopped outside a three-storey converted terrace that had been painted white at one stage or another but was now a dirty grey. Somebody had planted a few perennials in the tiny garden at the front to cheer it up a bit and a fat ginger cat sat staring unblinkingly out of the ground floor window. A stone stairwell led down to a separate entrance on the basement level, out of view.
“Alright, well, nice chatting to you and I hope you have a lovely holiday,” he said, flashing a quick smile. “Don’t forget to take your sun cream.”
She nodded and cast around for something intelligent to say to prolong their farewell.
“Enjoy the barbecue,” she said. “Might see you after I’m back?”
“Oh, I’m sure you will,” he said, and gave her a lingering look.
When she turned away and skipped downstairs, Nicola was smiling. Wasn’t it funny how the world worked? She’d been wondering whether she’d done the right thing in getting rid of Stuart and had almost cracked the other night when he’d called by to pick up his stuff. Then, when she least expected it, somebody else came along. She could hardly believe it, but she was sure he’d been flirting with her…
With the key already in the lock, she heard a slight noise and almost jumped in shock.
He was standing less than a metre behind her.
“I forgot something.”
Even as the tiger opened its jaw, she failed to recognise the danger.
“What’s that?” she said, dreaming of holding hands along the riverbank. All the things she hoped for, longed for.
All the things he would never be able to give.
He moved like lightning, one strong hand clamping across her mouth while the other stabbed the pressure syringe into her neck. Her eyes flew wide with shock as she felt the sharp stab of a needle but there was no time to struggle, no time to scream before the drug took effect. Her body began to sway, and she buckled, rapidly losing feeling in her arms and legs. He propped her against the door with one strong arm while the other turned the key in the lock, freezing as he heard footsteps passing by on the pavement above.
A moment later, they were gone.
“Come on, sleepy-head,” he said. “Let’s get you inside.”
He shut the door softly behind him.
CHAPTER 5
Tom Faulkner watched the sun begin to disappear behind the rooftops from the driver’s seat of his van, where he sat quietly sipping a bottle of lukewarm Irn-Bru. The Senior Crime Scene Investigator was a mild-mannered man of around forty whose face wore a constant hangdog expression of anxiety that belied his passion and flair for forensic science. Polypropylene overalls hung at his waist to reveal a faded X-Files t-shirt that had seen better days and his mousy brown hair was matted with sweat.
“Got a minute?”
Ryan poked his head through the half-open window and Faulkner scrubbed a tired hand over his face.
“Yeah,” he looked back to see the tented entranceway and thought of what had lain beyond the innocuous front door. “Let’s walk and talk. I need to shake it off.”
“Bad business in there,” Phillips sympathised, as they ambled down the street towards the village.
“Yeah. About as bad as it gets.”
It came to something when a CSI laid claim to that.
“What can you tell us?” Ryan asked, never a man to beat around the bush. “Did they leave anything behind?”
“They always leave something.” Faulkner took another sip of his drink and replaced the cap, swilling the sugary liquid around his mouth as if to rinse out the taste of death. “But it’ll be a miracle if we have any clean samples after wading through everything. It’ll take days before I know.”
Ryan watched a woman cross the street clutching the hand of a boy of three or four and felt h
is stomach twist.
“We don’t have days, Tom,” he said quietly. “What happened to Cooper is a clear escalation. They won’t wait long for the next one.”
Faulkner hissed out a frustrated breath, weighing things up. His choice to forego dinner with his wife’s family and come into work had caused a vicious argument, something that was becoming more and more frequent these days. It troubled him, but not half as much as it should have done; not half as much as the prospect of being excluded from the investigation.
“I’ll do what I can,” he conceded.
Phillips slapped a manly hand on Faulkner’s shoulder.
“Good lad,” he said.
“You’re the best there is,” Ryan said, without rancour. He made no effort to flatter the man, merely stated the fact.
“That remains to be seen,” Faulkner muttered. “So far, I can’t tell you very much. You already know the front and back doors to the house were locked. Well, it turns out we have a considerate killer because they posted the door keys back through the letterbox. We found them lying on the floor.”
“Cocky bastard,” Phillips spat. “Any prints?”
“Plenty, but I’ll bet they all belong to Sharon. No way he’d have left them unless he was sure there’d be no risk.”
The three men fell silent as they rounded the corner onto the high street. The village slumbered again now that the locals and visitors had returned to their homes and they could hear the faint sound of waves crashing against the shore, somewhere in the twilight.
“What about weapons? Did he leave anything behind?”
By mutual accord, they headed in the direction of the sea wall.
“I’ve bagged everything that could possibly have been used but frankly I’m not holding out much hope,” Faulkner replied, with a trace of apology. “The kind of implement he’d need to get through…well, to saw through the bones, that would take a hacksaw or something similar. We didn’t find anything that fits the bill.”
“He could have dumped it somewhere,” Phillips put in. “We’ve got the local team rifling through bins, just in case.”
“He’s meticulous,” Ryan overrode him. “He’s not averse to spending time researching his victims’ lives, finding out where they live, when they leave home, whether they live alone… He probably prefers to use his own tools, in which case he brought what he needed and took them away again. We won’t find anything in a bin.”
