'I'm afraid we have some bad news,' Bannister interrupted.
Liz's hand went to her mouth, her eyes springing open in fear. 'Where is she?'
Her husband looked at her, his arm tightening around her shoulder. 'Yeah come on, what the hell's going on?'
Lasser knew what was coming next, the stock words that only ever brought horror and heartbreak.
'I'm afraid you need to prepare yourself for a shock.' Bannister mumbled.
Liz began to shake her head, the arm slid from her shoulder. 'No, no you can't come in…'
'Mrs Rimmer, I'm sorry but we…'
She spun away and tried to slam the door but her husband grabbed it, his face blank. 'Look will you…'
'She's dead!' Liz screamed. 'Isn't she?'
Bannister slid his hands into his pockets. 'I'm so sorry but we've found a body and we have reason to believe that it's Marsha.'
The man staggered back until he hit the banister rail, his wife was staring at the woodchip wall, both hands locked beneath her chin as in prayer. Lasser followed Bannister into the narrow hallway before closing the door quietly.
Bannister shook his head as Lasser puffed on the pretend cigarette.
'For God's sake have one of these.' Bannister pulled out a packet of Silk Cut.
Lasser looked at his boss in surprise. 'I thought you'd packed in?'
'I never said that, now do you want one or not?'
Dropping the plastic placebo into his pocket, Lasser slid a cigarette from the pack and lit up. It felt strange to be smoking after a three-week sabbatical; he would like to have said it tasted disgusting – trouble was it didn't.
They were parked on McDonald's car park, the place deserted apart from a couple of staff standing behind the counter like cardboard cut-outs.
They'd left Marsha Rimmer's parents clinging to one another on the sofa, their lives destroyed in a matter of seconds.
'This can't be happening,' Liz had looked at her husband with pain-filled eyes.
John Rimmer had looked incapable of speech, his face bone white with shock, looking faintly ridiculous in his red cheque boxer shorts. 'But she can't be dead, we only saw her at tea-time.'
It was heartfelt and somehow pathetic, while they'd been watching Coronation Street their only daughter had probably been in the process of dying.
'Where did you find her?' he asked, and swiped at his eyes.
'Mesnes Park.' Bannister replied.
'I told her not to keep going in there,' John twisted his hands together in anguish. 'Didn't I tell her Liz? Drunks and druggies, fucking perverts, that's what you get in that place after dark.'
'Did she go out with anyone tonight?' Lasser asked.
Liz shook her head. 'She said she was meeting a few of her friends in town.'
'How did she die?' John asked, and Liz leapt to her feet.
'I don't want to know.'
'But…'
'No!' she screamed and ran from the room.
Bannister slid the window down and flicked ash through the gap. 'So much for doubling the teams, we're concentrating on Whelley and Scholes, and he kills in the town centre.'
'I'll check the CCTV cameras in the morning,' Lasser said. 'You never know they might have picked something up.'
A hoodie on a bike flew across the road and bunny hopped over the kerb before vanishing into the myriad of back streets.
Bannister sighed. 'Do you think it's the same guy?'
Lasser looked at him in surprise, 'Seems likely.'
'I don't suppose we'll actually know until we catch the bastard.'
'Well, we do know the violence has been escalating, Karen Miller said he couldn't get a hard-on until he started knocking her about.'
'Jesus, what is it with this town, I mean, look at the size of the place it's not as if we're Manchester or Liverpool…'
'You're saying we have more than our fair share of headbangers?'
'Come on, Lasser, you know we do.'
'Maybe it's something they put in the water,' he smiled apologetically when he saw the look on Bannister's face.
'Go home, Sergeant.'
Lasser flicked the cigarette out of the window and clicked open the door.
'I'll have a word with Suzanne, we can reschedule the meal for another night.'
Lasser paused one leg on the pavement. 'Oh right.'
'In fact, maybe it would be better if you just came to our house; believe it or not I cook a mean curry.'
Lasser smiled and nodded. 'I look forward to it.'
'Lying bastard,' Bannister mumbled as he started the car.
When he arrived home, he was surprised to find Medea awake, sprawled on the sofa in her bathrobe, the television flickering in the corner with the sound turned down.
Sitting up she slid a hand through her dark hair; Lasser could see her toenails painted a vivid shade of green. 'How did it go?'
Dropping the car keys into the fruit bowl, he shook his head. 'Not good.'
Medea chewed at her lip. 'Is she dead?'
'Oh, she's dead all right.'
She patted the cushion at her side. 'Come and sit here.'
He slid down beside her, threading his fingers through hers, leaning across she loosened his tie with one hand and brushed her fingers across his lips. 'Do you want to talk about it?'
Lasser felt his natural reticence kick in; by rights he should keep his mouth closed, discussing a case with an outsider was frowned upon to say the least. 'She was eighteen; I've just been with Bannister to tell her parents.'
He waited for Medea to gasp in shock at the news; instead, she simply rested her head on his shoulder.
'Eighteen and sitting her 'A' levels, according to her mother she had a real flare for art and design,' Lasser shook his head in disgust. 'Snuffed out by some animal who can't get it up unless he's knocking fuck out of the victim.' The familiar impotent rage began to build and then he sagged back into the cushions. 'Sorry, I'm ranting again.'
'Why shouldn't you rant?'
'Because it's unprofessional and serves no purpose.'
'I think it's the only way to cope with what you do. Keeping a lid on your emotions would break you in the end, so why not let it out?'
He closed his eyes; though all he could see was the body of Marsha Rimmer, staring up at the night sky, her mouth stretched wide in a silent scream, gathering rainwater, her jacket full of holes from where the knife had gone in.
When he felt Medea's lips brush his own, the image began to fade, breaking into nothingness. Lasser tried to hold onto the anger, tried to pull her face back to the forefront of his mind and found that he couldn't.
Easing her away, he stood up before reaching down and plucking Medea from the sofa, her black hair fell in a cascade as he carried her up the stairs.
It was half past five when the insect drone of the mobile dragged him from the land of nod. Somehow, he knew it would be Bannister. After all, who else would ring him at this time of the morning? He stopped, in fact every time his phone rang it always seemed to be Bannister. The thought brought a frown to his face; perhaps it was right what people said about him, a bit of a loner, a Billy No-Mates.
Snatching the phone from the bedside cabinet, he stalked across the room and out onto the landing.
'Shannon, six-thirty, don't be late.' Bannister said, before ending the call.
Lasser looked at the phone in disbelief, no good morning, no general chitchat. Shaking his head, he made his way to the bathroom, flicked on the shower and then took a leak while the water warmed up. Clocking his reflection in the mirror, he decided he didn't have time for a shave, besides five o'clock shadow was meant to be fashionable.
Twenty minutes later he was dressed and standing in the bedroom doorway, a slice of carbonised toast clamped between his teeth. Medea was still sleeping, one arm thrown across her face, a shapely leg dangling from the bed, her toes brushing the carpet.
Checking his watch, Lasser closed the door quietly before heading down the stair
s.
Thankfully, at this time of day, traffic was sparse and he made it to the hospital with ten minutes to spare. Feeding loose change into the coffee machine, he heard the corridor door slam open and turned to find Bannister barrelling towards him.
Lasser glanced at his watch. 'What time do you call this?'
The DCI jabbed out a sausage-like finger. 'Don't, Lasser; I'm not in the mood.'
'Do you want a brew?'
'What's it like?'
Lasser took a sip. 'Not bad.'
'Black coffee, extra sugar.'
Lasser pressed a couple of buttons and watched as the plastic cup dropped into the slot. 'So, have you spoken to Shannon?'
'No, he left a voicemail, he said the preliminaries would be ready for half-six.'
Lasser handed him the drink, Bannister took a sip and grimaced before dropping the cup into the flip-top bin.
'Your insides must look like an old kettle.'
Lasser took another sip. 'I've had worse.'
'Yes well, I haven't.'
Both men turned at the sound of rubber soles squeaking on polished floor tiles. Doc Shannon seemed to fill the narrow corridor, like an enormous bearded Pacman, a thin blue file wedged beneath his ham shank arm.
'Good morning, gents.'
'Morning, Doc,' Lasser replied.
Bannister grunted a response.
'Right, if you'd like to follow me,' he led them into a small office and then swiped a card through an electronic slot before entering the morgue.
As always, Lasser grimaced when he saw the gleaming cutting tables. Every time he was in this place, he imagined his own body on the slab. It was a morbid fantasy that he couldn't seem to shake. They followed Shannon over to the fridge units. Dragging down the handle, he swung the door open and slid the body out, encased in a plastic sheet.
Flipping open the file he began to read aloud. 'Fourteen stab wounds, eleven to the upper and lower torso and three to the neck. Six separate wounds to the inside of her thighs.' Reaching down he slid the zip open. Marsha Rimmer looked diminished, the multiple wounds puckered and frayed around the edges, the skin tinged grey, her lips almost black. Lasser tried to swallow down the anger and found it impossible.
'What about the blade?' Bannister asked, his eyebrows knitting together.
'As far as I can ascertain he used a bread knife.'
Bannister blinked in surprise, 'A bloody ''bread knife''?'
'Ten to twelve inches in length,' Shannon held his hands about a foot apart. 'Serrated along the bottom edge, from the look of the wounds I'd say it wasn't particularly sharp.'
'Was she raped?' Lasser asked.
'Definitely, I found traces of semen…'
'I want them sent for…'
'Analysis?' Shannon interrupted. 'I did it last night we should have the result sometime this afternoon.'
A flicker of begrudging admiration passed across Bannister's face. 'Good man.'
'I also found a hair trapped beneath the ring on her right hand. If he's on the system, then we should be able to get a match.' Shannon said.
The DCI rubbed his hands together feverishly. 'Got you, you little bastard.'
Lasser loosened his tie, it sounded as if the man they were chasing was like the bread knife, not particularly sharp. Leaving behind not one, but two samples of DNA meant he was either as thick as pig shit or he knew that eventually they'd catch him and he simply didn't care, neither scenario was particularly comforting.
'What about the abrasions on her face?' he asked.
'Probably from where he held her down on the ground, I found distinct bruising around the lower jaw moving onto the right cheek,' Shannon traced a finger along the bruising, Lasser and Bannister leaned in close.' My guess is he clamped a hand over her mouth while he was stabbing her.' Shannon scratched at his Desperate Dan beard. 'I'd imagine she was already dead or close to it by the time he got around to raping her.'
Lasser felt his anger turn up another notch as the implication seeped into his fizzing brain.
'Anything else we should know?' Bannister asked through paper-thin lips.
'Well, the amount of internal bleeding leads me to think that before the attack she'd been a virgin.'
Lasser closed his eyes, he heard Bannister sigh heavily.
'Right, well thanks for your help, Doctor Shannon.'
'As soon as I get the results, I'll give you a ring.'
Lasser watched as Shannon eased the zip back into place, before sliding the body into the narrow space. The latch on the door clicked into place with a bitter sense of finality.
17
It was like waking up in delicious stages; Robert lay beneath the crumpled duvet and groaned in ecstasy as the knife plunged into her throat. His eyes fluttered behind closed lids, his right hand slid beneath the covers and grabbed his erection. In his frenzied mind, the knife juddered in his hand as he yanked it free, his brain slowly rising towards consciousness. She struggled beneath him, so he stabbed her again, feeling the resistance as the blade glanced off a rib before surging forward, her eyes wide and consumed with pain. Then inexplicably her right hand lurched out and grabbed at his hair. Bearing down, he felt the knife slide through flesh.
As she swivelled her terrified eyes towards him, he grinned down at her before dragging her legs apart, fumbling with the buttons on his jeans, the blood thundered through his head obliterating all other sound, and then… his eyes cracked open and the dream plummeted away into the darkness.
His cock felt huge in his hand, what a dream, what a fantastic fucking dream! Robert rubbed his left hand across his face and suddenly stopped and sniffed. He was attuned to the sounds and smells of the tiny bedsit, the rumble of the central heating, the distant clatter of pots and pans, the acrid smell of spices, but this was somehow different. Pulling the hand away from his face, he looked at it in amazement, it reminded him of the time he had dyed his hair and forgot to wear the little plastic gloves. The palm and all his fingers were stained deep red, like dark rust on old metal. Then the dream that wasn't a dream blasted through his head like a tsunami, washing away all the fog and clutter and leaving only the image of the girl lying on the gritty concrete, legs spread, dying, dead. Robert groaned as his erection twitched, and he felt warm semen slither down his hand, ecstasy.
'I told you it would be worth the wait,' the voice said, and then chuckled.
18
Gemma winced as she felt the muscles in her stomach grab and twist. Pain blossomed and then began to subside like a rolling wave crashing onto a black beach.
The bedroom door swung open and Shaun walked into the room carrying a tray loaded with orange juice, toast and a boiled egg sitting snugly in a flower patterned eggcup.
'I thought you might want some breakfast?' he smiled at her before sitting on the edge of the bed.
Gemma's brow felt tacky with sweat, the duvet twisted like a tourniquet. Easing forward she turned to plump the pillow and the pain suddenly erupted. Gasping, she grabbed the duvet, snatching it up to her chin, her legs curling in pain.
'Gem, are you OK?'
When she screamed, Shaun leapt to his feet, the tray slipped from his fingers spilling the contents to the floor, orange juice leaked into the cream carpet, the toast landing face down.
'What's the matter?' he reached out and grasped her hand, felt her fingernails dig deep into his palm.
Gemma screamed again, the sound blasting around the bedroom. Shaun sprinted for the door and onto the landing, taking the stairs three at a time. Skidding into the kitchen, he grabbed his mobile from the table, hands shaking as another scream rattled around the house.
His fingers jittered over the screen and then he slapped the phone to his ear and ran back up the stairs. Stopping in the doorway his eyes sprang wide as he tried to take it all in. Gemma was lying half on, half off the bed, the sheet slick with blood, her beige stretch leggings drenched red.
'Gemma!' he scuttled towards her.
'Hello, which serv
ice do you require?'
Shaun fell to his knees by her side; she twisted her head towards him, her brown eyes awash with agony.
'Hello, is anyone there?'
'Ambulance, my wife's going into labour.'
'Are you unable to make it to the hospital?'
'What?' Shaun asked in disbelief.
'Is it an emergency?'
Gemma gritted her teeth as she felt the pain come again, rising from the pit of her stomach, shredding her insides. 'Please, Shaun,' she gasped.
'Twelve Park Lane, Wigan, we need them out now!'
'They're on their way, could I take your name please.'
Gemma screamed and Shaun hurled the phone across the room. Grabbing his wife, he hauled her back onto the bed, her eyes rolled back until all he could see were the whites, like the sliver of the hardboiled egg that lay shattered on the bedroom floor.
19
'Are you looking for anything in particular?'
Lasser could hear the drone of the fans from the computers; the small room had two banks of monitors, twelve screens in all, each showing a different section of the town centre.
'Can you show me from last night around eight o'clock?'
The man sitting in front of the screens looked like a stereotypical boffin; stick thin with a high domed forehead, his wispy hair rippled in the air-con breeze. His name was Roger, Rog to his friends.
'Town centre only?'
'For now,' Lasser replied.
Roger's fingers flitted over the keyboard, the screens went blank, then he pressed enter, and they flickered back to life.
Lasser could feel the beginnings of a headache as he tried to concentrate on the multiple screens. 'Is there any way you can isolate them one at a time?'
Rog nodded, his fingers danced and eleven of the screens froze. 'This is Market Street at twenty-ten last night.'
Lasser eased back in the chair, yanked the fake cigarette from his pocket and had a couple of quick pulls. The screen showed people milling up and down Market Street, typical weekend revellers, lads dressed in jeans and T-shirts, girls dressed in very little.
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