Senseless

by Ed James

  ‘On it.’ Alison set off at a sprint, her feet slapping off the ground. ‘Look lively, Jay!’

  Jason raced after her, following her up the lane at the side of the boozer. Typical Brighton back street, narrow, long and lined with the sides of hotels. He tried to match her, but she was just too fast.

  Up ahead, a red Vauxhall with taxi signage on top had pulled in. The streetlights caught the gaudy lime-green tiles on the front of the Mucky Duck pub. A man straddled the taxi’s bonnet, naked as the day he was born and swaying like he’d been on the heavy sauce since noon, three days ago. He clambered up onto the roof and swung a long knife around, the serrated edge looking mean in the night glow. ‘Get away from me!’

  Jason slowed to match Alison’s walking pace. ‘Suspect is armed with a bread knife. Repeat: armed with a bread knife. Over.’

  ‘Receiving. An ARU is en route. Approach with caution, over.’

  Jason took a look at Alison, got a nod, then started a slow walk over, hands raised. The telltale snikt sound of her baton extending came from behind. He followed suit, holding the truncheon up behind his back to keep it hidden as they approached. ‘Mate, we’re here to help you, yeah?’

  The man swung round, slashing the knife through the air in their general direction. ‘Do you know my name?’

  Jason stopped, frowning at Alison. Her confusion matched his. He raised his hand higher. ‘Let’s have a nice chat down at the station, get to the bottom of what this is about, yeah?’

  The man jabbed the knife towards them, even though he was about twenty feet away. ‘My name is Matt!’ Another prod. ‘Are you listening to me? I exist! Don’t put me back in my cell! I don’t want to float again!’

  Alison mouthed: ‘What the hell is he on about?’

  ‘Mate, I’ll swing for you!’ Round the other side of the taxi, a polo-shirted hooligan type with a face as red as his cab’s bonnet, meaty fists clenched. ‘Get off my bleeding car!’

  ‘You’re not putting me back in my cage!’ Matt aimed his rage and his knife at the cabbie now, turning his back and hairy buttocks to the cops. ‘Do I exist?’

  ‘You can fuck off!’ The cabbie noticed them. ‘Here, can you sort this prick out?’

  ‘Mate, I need you to back off!’ Jason shot him a hard look.

  The cabbie was seasoned enough to comply.

  Jason rounded the car, matching Alison’s position like they were herding sheep. He focused on the naked lunatic on the car. Maybe he wasn’t drunk, maybe it was hard drugs. Spice or PCP or God knows what else. Something new that made people strip off and do crazy shit. ‘How about you put the knife down, yeah?’

  ‘No!’ Matt stuck the blade against his arm, right over the wrist. ‘If I don’t exist, this won’t hurt, will it?’ And he started cutting.

  Jason swung his baton through the air and connected with bone. Matt dropped the knife and Jason swept it away towards safety.

  ‘I exist!’ Matt stared at him, eyes bulging. ‘You’re not putting me back in the water!’ Then he jumped down from the taxi onto Jason, pushing him over. They landed in a heap, Jason’s shoulder cracking off the kerbstone in a blaze of furious agony. His baton clattered onto the cobbles, skittering under the idling taxi.

  Something sharp dug into Jason’s throat. ‘Don’t put me back in the water!’ Matt was on top of him, pressing the same knife against his neck. How the hell had he got hold of that again? ‘I exist! Tell me I don’t or—’

  A flash of metal and Matt slumped forward, his naked body rubbing across Jason’s face.

  Alison stood above them, clutching her baton like a golf club. She held out her right hand. ‘I’d hate to see how far you’d go on a second date.’

  Jason hauled himself up, trying not to laugh. But struggling. ‘I’m anyone’s on a first date, you know that.’

  That got a smirk from her. Then her face tightened with a nod. ‘You can do the honours.’

  Jason walked over to Matt and snapped out his cuffs. ‘I’m arresting you for assaulting a police officer. What’s your full name?’

  ‘If you put me back in a cell, I will kill you.’

  Twenty-three

  [Corcoran, 21:45]

  Thompson stood in the hospital corridor, hands on hips. ‘And have you found any Matts related to the case so far?’

  Still fizzing with caffeine energy, Corcoran looked at Palmer, but just saw his uncertainty reflected back. He gave Thompson a slight shrug. ‘Not to my knowledge. And certainly not in any of the chats we’ve had with Sarah or Howard.’

  ‘So what does it mean?’ Thompson’s gaze was like a searchlight, picking them out in the night sea. ‘Another victim? The perpetrator?’

  ‘It would appear to be another victim.’ Corcoran felt his throat constrict. ‘Up till now, I’ve been trying to treat these as separate, hoping that what happened to Sarah and Howard were unconnected. But that’s bollocks. There are just too many connections now.’

  Palmer twisted the loose ends of her plait in her fingers. ‘I’m clutching at straws, looking for any way this isn’t connected.’ Her eyes were moist around the edges. ‘I mean, Sarah told us about the “Charlie the Seahorse” noise terror that Howard was subjected to. He saw her nameplate.’ She huffed out a breath. ‘It’s all connected, isn’t it?’

  Thompson focused on Palmer. ‘Okay, doc, time to earn your corn. In layman’s terms, what does this mean?’

  ‘Well, an extra door points to someone else going through some torture, either at the same time as Sarah and Howard or at some future point. And aside from that, I just don’t know.’

  ‘And that’s just not going to do, is it?’ Thompson clapped Palmer on the shoulder, then gripped Corcoran’s tight. ‘You two have been up against it today. You’ve put in the miles and the hours. We’ve caught two cases, not one, which is far from ideal, but I need you to do your jobs. Tomorrow morning, focus on the connections between these cases. Palmer, I need a profile. Aidan, I need an identity on this Matt. Now get home and get yourselves a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘You say that like I can just click my fingers . . .’ Corcoran ran a hand down his face. ‘Fine, I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Good man.’ Thompson got out her phone and scowled at the screen. ‘Ah, great. Your friend DI Magrane from Axminster has just arrived and is chomping at the bit to speak to Howard.’

  ‘You heard about the drugs, right?’

  Thompson nodded. ‘I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time a drug dealer lied, but God, this really is the least of our concerns.’ She shook her head, then smiled at them both. ‘Now, fresh as a daisy first thing tomorrow. Get some sleep, see if anything strikes you.’

  Corcoran watched her slope off down the corridor, putting her phone to her skull. He looked over at Palmer. ‘You okay?’

  She shook her head. ‘All along I’d hoped you were right, Aidan, that these were separate and the connections were just in my head. But they’re connected, aren’t they? This is one case. One offender. Two cases that might be three. Meaning a serial offender.’ Her eyes bulged. ‘And a parallel offender too. He’s kept Sarah and Howard at the same time, mere feet away from each other. Add this Matt into the mix and . . . and . . . And if there’s a serial offender at work here, they might escalate to murder. They might already have done so. Matt might already be dead.’

  Corcoran didn’t have the words for her. He could only offer a reassuring smile.

  ‘This is my worst fear come to life, Aidan.’ Her plait was at risk of untangling. ‘How long will this go on for?’

  Corcoran felt bad for his earlier aggression. But he’d just been doing his job, pushing the expert to help them look in the right place at the right time, to prove they weren’t related. Now they knew they were, it was his job to help her find the sadistic animal before they could strike again. ‘Marie, you’ve got this.’ He gave her a smile. ‘The best thing you can do is work your magic and get us a profile of the attacker.’

  ‘Well, that sounds patroni
sing.’

  ‘I don’t mean it to. I’m serious. And you look as tired as I feel, so do what Thompson suggests and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s already feeling like a bastard of a day.’

  She tied off her plait and tucked it behind her head. ‘Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Corcoran waved her off, then watched her go down the corridor. His great white hope, with the hair of an eleven-year-old school swot.

  [23:46]

  The janitor steered a floor cleaner around, the deep throb sounding like a street dealer’s car with the windows down.

  Corcoran yawned into his fist and the yawn took over, tugging at his throat and twisting his mouth wide, pinching his nose as the fatigue gripped him.

  ‘You don’t want the wind to change, Aidan.’ Thompson was loitering by his desk. ‘I could’ve sworn I sent you home two hours ago.’

  ‘And yet here I am.’ Corcoran looked around the quiet office, engulfed by another yawn. Over in Thompson’s doorway, DI Magrane was on the phone, listening hard like he had yet another voicemail. Or was it one of those calls from a superior officer? ‘How’s it going with laughing boy?’

  ‘Never even seen him smile, let alone laugh.’ Thompson slumped down in the chair next to him. ‘Give me it straight, Aidan. Why the hell do you think they are doing this?’

  ‘Not my job, Alana.’ Corcoran tried to stifle another yawn. ‘Palmer will come up with the goods.’

  Mischief twinkled in her eyes. ‘You got a thing for her?’

  ‘Don’t.’ Corcoran narrowed his eyes at Thompson. ‘Seriously.’

  She raised her hands. ‘Smoke, fire.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘Fine, fine. What are you up to?’

  Corcoran waved a hand at his computer, not that he could really focus on it. ‘I’ve been searching for abductions of anyone with the name Matt. I know Howard thought he saw it with two Ts, but I’ve included one T and Matthew. Found a few Frenchmen called Mathis and a German Mats.’ He looked at his sheet of paper. ‘I’ve got an alert for any new missing persons who meet my search criteria, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘The problem is I’ve got so many results that it’s going to be impossible to narrow it down without something else.’

  Thompson winked at him. ‘You mean some of Dr Palmer’s special magic?’

  Corcoran ignored her. ‘I mean more biographical information. Age, hair colour, inside leg measurement.’ He slapped the side of the monitor. ‘And he might not even be on here.’

  Thompson stood up tall and something clicked. Sounded mechanical. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a meeting with the boss and with laughing boy first thing tomorrow, so I need you to lead the briefing.’

  Nothing Corcoran could do to mask the sigh. ‘Fine.’ He checked his watch. ‘Who needs sleep anyway?’

  ‘Well, you will. After that, you need to stick to your doctor like glue.’

  ‘You don’t want me leading the investigation?’

  ‘Nope. Focus on her. I’ve got another two sergeants for the real work.’

  Twenty-four

  [Palmer, 00:44]

  Almost pitch darkness: just the faint outlines of light coming from the window.

  Palmer lay in her bed and kicked her foot again. The case just wouldn’t stop running through her head. Not that she could sleep anyway. Any time she almost drifted off, she got a flash of Corcoran’s driving and snapped fully awake. ‘Alexa, what’s the time?’

  The little puck glowed pale green and blue. ‘It’s twelve forty-five a.m.’

  She turned over, facing away from the window. Too hot in here.

  Sarah, Howard and Matt.

  Three victims, assuming Matt existed. Starvation, sleep deprivation and . . . And what? What next? What had happened to Matt? Had it happened? Would it happen?

  Somewhere, Matt was suffering. They needed to find him. She needed to find him.

  ‘Alexa, bedroom lights on.’

  Another blue-green glow, then the room lit up with dim spotlights. Palmer reached over for her phone, her dry eyes struggling to focus on the screen as she typed out a text: You up? She regretted it as soon as she’d sent it. Shouldn’t have to reach out like that.

  The phone buzzed with a reply almost immediately: Sure am. You need to meet up?

  [01:15]

  Palmer shivered as she walked through Oxford, her trainers sliding over the cobbles in a way her kitten heels couldn’t. Arms swinging, her rucksack strapped on tight. Must make her look like a snail. The ancient winding streets, built so long ago but still standing, still holding sway over the rest of the country, casting a long shadow over London and the country’s ruling class.

  The bitter wind caught a stray hair, brushing it into her face. No time to re-plait her hair, just a ponytail hanging loose and swinging behind her like a lion’s tail.

  And she always forgot about that wind. Oxford seemed so idyllic in her head until she was here. She stopped outside her old college, the Lodge gates shut for the night, and rang the bell.

  A pair of eyes appeared in the slot halfway up the tall door. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Marie Palmer, here to see—’

  ‘Ah, Marie, you’re looking well.’ The door creaked open and Dorothy stood there, a wide smile on her face, wearing the college porter’s garb. Just a few more lines, a few more grey hairs, but she looked exactly the same as when Palmer had lived there fifteen years ago, though she’d somehow missed her on her subsequent trips back. ‘Through you come.’

  ‘How have you been?’

  ‘Nothing changes here except the students. I hear you’re a doctor now?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Dorothy gave another smile, with just a hint of the malice you’d get if you crossed her. ‘She’s through there.’ She thumbed behind her, then went back to her room.

  Palmer took her time walking through to the quad. Despite the time, it was all lit up. Above, a few students looked down from their rooms, the sounds of illicit partying leaking out.

  ‘I can smell your nerves, Marie.’ A soft Scottish accent floated across the breeze. Professor Zoe Wilson was standing on the grass, smoking. Her dyed-red corkscrew curls hung free for once. A slight tan to her face betrayed her quarter-Algerian ancestry, a tale that changed every time she told it. Rings covered her fingers, all except the obvious one. She smiled. ‘You’re looking well.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Palmer felt her mouth twist in that way she’d tried to control, but . . . Being back there, with her, it was like she was an undergraduate again. ‘Thanks for replying to my text.’

  Zoe stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Come on, you look like you need a cup of tea.’

  [01:30]

  Zoe’s office was much the same as fifteen years ago. Books everywhere. Everywhere. No room for anything else. Even her laptop rested on a stack of ancient hardbacks, her desk lost to an encroaching wave of books. The teapot rested on another stack, pouring a gentle mist into the air.

  ‘So I take it you can’t sleep?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Palmer sipped her green tea, still too hot to glug, but pleasant enough. ‘I mean, I’m excited about being involved in an active investigation, but this whole thing . . . There’s no rest, and too much pressure.’ She took another sip. ‘And I’m terrified of messing it up, especially given Corcoran’s attitude.’

  ‘Corcoran?’

  ‘The Thames Valley detective I’m working with.’ Palmer brushed her arm through the air. ‘I notice you didn’t pick up on my concern about messing it up.’

  ‘Because I trust you, Marie.’ Zoe took a dainty sip of tea. ‘And you suit your hair down.’

  Palmer blushed. ‘Thanks. I need to get it cut but—’

  ‘—there’s just never enough time?’ Zoe arched her eyebrow. ‘Never change, Marie. Never change.’ She reached over to top up her cup, then splashed some into Palmer’s cup without asking. ‘This is a good opportunity for you to get out into the field. I’ve been there, but you�
��ve been stuck in that hospital for too long.’ She looked around the four corners of her office. ‘I know the feeling, stuck in here like a rat in a cage.’

  ‘Don’t talk about cages.’ A shiver ran up Palmer’s spine. ‘Whenever I interview offenders, I have weeks and weeks with them and I’m working to a strategy I’ve spent months on, signed off with all relevant stakeholders. And the patients are already behind bars.’ She held her cup to her lips but didn’t drink, just felt the steam on her face. ‘This time, though . . . Well. We’re working against the clock. And all I can think about is what if they do it again? What if they keep doing it again and again?’ She took that drink, swallowed it and felt the liquid burn down. ‘How the hell do the police cope with the constant pressure without cracking?’

  ‘What I wouldn’t give to interview half the police officers in the country . . .’ Zoe smirked. ‘But their coping mechanisms are usually gallows humour, compartmentalisation and self-medication. Joking about it until it’s not even funny. Not even thinking about it. Then when it does finally invade your thoughts, drinking yourself to sleep every night.’

  Palmer nodded, depressed by the empathy she felt towards Corcoran’s plight. And was it just empathy? She shook the unwelcome thought out of her head. ‘Maybe I should’ve had some gin tonight. Might’ve helped me sleep.’

  ‘But instead you turned to me for help.’ Zoe raised both eyebrows, but it was like she was pleading rather than offering from a position of strength. Like she needed to help, rather than wanted to. ‘How about we start by pulling together everything you know about both cases? Then we can tie up any links, no matter how trivial. That could help find out what’s driving this. And we can look for anyone with a similar MO, see if that could help.’

  Palmer sat back in the chair, the old wood creaking. ‘Okay.’ She looked for somewhere to rest her cup, but came up short again, so put it down on the small patch of floor by her feet and got out her notebook. She flicked through the pages. ‘Well. All we’ve got so far is two victims kept in prison cells. Victim one for six weeks. Victim two for twelve days.’