by Liz Mistry
After what seemed like ages, but was probably only a minute or two, Carlton straightened, placed his hands near the small of his back and stretched his belly outwards. Even that small action irked Gus. Just get on with it, man. By now, Carlton had taken two backward steps, nearly falling over in the process, and looked up at the woman hanging there. Gus averted his eyes. Somehow, it seemed intrusive to watch the profiler study the woman’s naked body – like he was a voyeur. He’d already studied her with the clinical detachment he adopted as his job, but to watch someone else examine her, seemed just a little too tasteless. He bowed his head and turned to Hissing Sid, who had returned from storing a box of bagged evidence from the garden. ‘Anything useful, Sid?’
Sid farted – long and loud, the reverberations enough to alert the nearby CSIs, who immediately moved away from their boss. Pulling his mask over his nose and mouth, Gus rolled his eyes, but refused to react. Sid wanted him to respond, and beneath his mask Gus grinned as a flash of disappointment flitted over Sid’s features. Even when the fumes reached him, Gus steadfastly focussed on the other man. ‘Well?’
Shrugging, Sid sighed. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. The stuff we picked up from the garden was mainly wrappers that had blown down the alley and landed here – doubt they’ll be useful. We took the contents of her wheelie bin and recycling, so there might be something there. Still processing fingerprints in the living room and kitchen – bagged a few bills and such like. We’ll wait and see what we get from the upstairs rooms and I’m sending a team down to the cellar – just in case our killer went down there.’
He looked up as Professor Carlton came downstairs. ‘There’s a lot to process at the labs, but I’ll get it to you asap. I reckon this one’s not done … am I right, Professor Carlton? This guy’s not going to stick with only one victim?’
‘Oh, Sidney, how lovely to see you. Haven’t seen you for such a long time.’ He pulled down his facemask, his flushed cheeks and sweaty brow glistening in the sun. ‘I need to work on my profile of course and as you know it’s hard to profile with any degree of accurateness with only the one victim.’
Behind his own mask, Gus pursed his lips. Despite Carlton’s contributions to previous investigations, Gus was inclined to believe that the art of forensic profiling was more about instinct than science and that accuracy depended on the skill of the profiler rather than any hard and fast rules. He’d learnt not to get into an argument about this with the professor as he undoubtedly ended up frustrated by the man’s good humoured, but incisive arguments.
Carlton turned to include Gus. ‘But yes, I do suspect this is not going to be a one-kill deal. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve arranged to meet Compo back at The Fort and I don’t want to be late. Speak later, Gus.’
And before Gus could utter a protest, Carlton had opened the gate and was heading down the alley to the waiting police car.
Chapter 5
Bellbrax Psychiatric Facility, Scotland
It’s been a while – weeks now. I don’t like it. I feel uneasy, but there’s nothing I can do. The things he told me when he visited, don’t make sense – yet, they do. I tried to tell myself he was lying, but I know that the only person who’s lying is me – to myself. I don’t know what to do. I keep thinking back, remembering Jude as I hefted her up to the hook. Why couldn’t they have ruled her death suicide? Then everything would be different. We wouldn’t be where we are right now.
Nobody’s paying me any heed as I stroll round the grounds. If they could see the thoughts in my head, they’d think I’m mad. I smile. Oh, wait a minute, they already do – that’s why I’m here. I laugh out loud and one of the nurses, Bernie, saunters over. He’s smiling – just checking me out, making sure I’m not losing it. I like Bernie. He’s all right, likes a bit of a laugh. Likes to pass the time chatting to those of us who can. I stop laughing and straighten my face. No way am I letting them get into my head. If they did, they’d work out the truth and God only knows what would happen. It’s best they all think I’m mad. But inside my head a voice is asking me, Is it? Is it really best that they don’t know the truth? I squash it and focus on reassuring Bernie. After all, if you can’t be loyal to your own, what’s left?
‘You all right there?’ Bernie always takes care not to make direct eye contact. Gives me space and I appreciate that. Some of them don’t get that I need space. They crowd me, but not Bernie. He’s one of the good guys.
‘Just having a wee walk, Bernie.’
Bernie nods and I feel his gaze on my back as I walk away. I have to be careful now that I’ve attracted his attention. I keep walking, stopping every so often to do the stretches I’ve adopted as ‘my looney signature’. Keep things normal, do what they expect, and maybe things won’t be as bad as I think. But that’s not right. I know deep down that things are going to be a lot worse than I think. They’re bound to be. It’s been weeks – three, at least. The temptation inside me grows. I glance round. Bernie’s talking to a nurse. I take my chance whilst he’s distracted and pummel my fists into my face. Thump, thump thump!
He hasn’t noticed, so I move on, forcing my fists to uncurl. Instead I worry at my bottom lip with my teeth. I’ve got regrets – I smile, but make sure not to let it become an out-loud laugh – too few to mention – I want to laugh and share the joke – but nobody would get it – not sure any of them are capable of it – every highway. Shit now it’s in my head. A damn ear worm and just when I’m trying to work out what to do. How to make things right? My regrets are real – all too real and they sicken me to the core of my stomach – the thing is, I wonder how many more regrets I’m going to have before this all ends. Before I know it my fists, as if of their own volition, are clenched. Thump, thump, thump!
Still Bernie doesn’t see and I hunch my shoulders and force my hands into my pockets. I need to stop this. Can’t get caught doing this or they’ll dope me up again and I need to stay alert. I focus on my regrets. I was always a maudlin drunk. Should never have let them see me like that drooling over that photo of her like a lovesick calf. They hated her without even knowing her. I tried to convince them she would never have left me – not on my own. Tried to tell them how good she was. That she’d always protected me – none of what happened was her fault – no matter what that bitch told me at the time. It was all so long ago. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I’ve got blood on my hands – so much blood. So many wrong decisions, mistakes that can’t be rectified.
Later, I finally found her. I was pleased she was happy. I devoured every piece of information I could find about her. Where she’s been for all these years. I was desperate to share my good news with her. I was going to be a daddy. She’d have been so happy for me. I know she would. Why didn’t I speak to her?
I punch my head with my closed fist, then glance round. Can’t let anyone see me doing that. Can’t let them give me the medication – not now, not when I need to think things through. I need to work out what to do.
I wish I still had that photo of us. She had her arms round me, tight. She smiled, and I smiled. We would look after each other. She promised me that and I thought we’d always be together. But she was taken away. The urge to punch myself is so strong, it’s all I can do to stop myself. I thrust my fists into my pockets. Got to look normal – well as normal as anybody in this shit-hole ever looks.
The day I found the photo, her eyes stabbed through, her smile scraped off, I was so sad. I knew which one of them had done it, and I knew why. Still, I was sad. It was the last thing I had of her. It was all my fault though, rambling on, whisky after whisky, drink after drink. Telling them everything, forcing every detail on their impressionable little minds. I should never have done that – that’s why everything – all the payback, all the hatred, everything that was happening – it’s all my fault. My stupid, drunken thoughtless fault. And, there is nothing I can do about it, nothing – not when I’m stuck in here. Nobody, not one of them, would believe me if I told them. The
y’d think I’d lost it again. They’d dope me up, increase my dose until I stopped telling them, pleading with them to help her. My hands are coming out of my pockets and I can’t stop them. I know I’m going to pummel myself …know I’m going to lose it and this time I might not ever stop. My chest tightens and still they rise.
Then… ‘Fancy a cuppa and a game of dominoes?’
Shit, Bernie again. He’s caught wind that I’m upset. Need to pull it together. Act normal. Somehow, I force my hands back down and unclench my fists. I turn and smile. ‘Yep, beat you last time – this time I’ll give you a bit of a chance.’
Bernie’s laugh comes right up from his gut and rolls out from his mouth. I like it. I like that I’ve made a connection – a human connection. I like that I’m the one that’s caused his laughter. I walk over to him and together we walk back to the tables with the sunshades on them.
That was a close one, but I think I’ve deflected it – this time.
Chapter 6
Bradford
‘Infuriating, annoying little man.’ It had been ten minutes since Professor Sebastian Carlton had left and Gus was still ranting as they waited for Dr McGuire, who’d arrived shortly after Carlton had left, to return from viewing the victim in situ.
‘Never mind, Gus. You know he’ll come up with the goods once he’s done his thing.’ Alice made spooky finger gestures and grinned. ‘Besides, it’ll be lovely to see him and Compo together…’
‘Hmph. And that’s another thing. He’s a distraction. Compo sneaks in any little jobs that man wants doing ahead of my top priority instructions…’ He hesitated, running his fingers through his dreads and exhaled. ‘And the bloody incident room will be covered in bloody sprinkles and stuff from those bloody doughnuts he likes … and it’ll stink of bacon all the time.’
Alice laughed. ‘Look, consider the cost of a few dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts a fair payment for the amount of work he does. Besides the incident room always smells of bacon anyway – that’s not new.’
‘He’ll start sticking stuff on the wall with Blu-Tack…’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, give over. You’re like a truculent toddler who’s eaten too many red Smarties.’
Gus slurped from a can of Irn Bru and glanced up the alleyway leading to their crime scene. ‘Wonder what’s keeping my dad. He’s taking his time, isn’t he?’
Leaning against her Mini Cooper, Alice nodded. ‘Yep, he’s probably being extra thorough, like you asked. He’ll be back in a minute and then after you’ve spoken to him, he can get back to his golf and we can get back to The Fort before the doughnuts are gone.’
‘What is it with the experts we bring in on these bloody investigations? First bloody Carlton and his neon specs and trainers, then my dad in tartan trousers and a Proclaimer’s T-shirt? Have none of them got even a degree of self-respect?’
‘Grouch.’
‘I’m not a grouch.’
Alice snorted. ‘Oh yes, you bloody well are. You nearly bit poor Bri’s head off yesterday and all he did was ask if you wanted some loo roll.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Al. What the hell was Brian call me Bri doing, knocking on the door asking if I needed loo roll? What sort of self-respecting bloke does that, eh?’
Laughing, Alice nudged him lightly. ‘The sort of bloke who’s trying to be friendly. The sort of bloke who lives on his own but succumbed to a BOGOF on a 24 pack of loo roll and wanted to share.’
‘BOGOF – how appropriate. I should have told him to BOGOF with his bog roll.’
‘BOGOF means buy one get one free – he was being neighbourly, that’s all. Moving in the middle of a pandemic restricts your ability to make friends, you know.’
Gus huffed. ‘No, what restricts Brian call me Bri’s ability to make friends is that he’s a wimp.’ A smile twitched Gus’s lips. ‘I think Brian call me Bri fancies you – that’s why he’s always turning up offering stuff.’
‘Ah – maybe it’s not me he fancies – maybe it’s you he’s after – he’s more your age, after all.’
‘Well, Al, all I can say is if that is the case, the man has impeccable taste. But let’s get back to the job in hand. Looks like my dad’s finally finished with the scene. He’s not getting any quicker with age, is he?’
Fergus McGuire had stopped just outside the garden gate, hand on the fence as if for support. He’d already taken off his bunny suit and mask. Gus raised a hand in greeting, but his dad was looking at the ground, one hand massaging his chest.
Frowning, Gus glanced at Alice. ‘What the hell’s he doing?’
‘Dunno.’ She opened her mouth to yell a greeting, but Gus placed a hand on her arm and shook his head. ‘No, wait. Something’s wrong.’
The two of them watched as Dr McGuire raised a huge hand and wiped it over his face and then up over his increasingly balding head. With what was left of his hair flattened, he exhaled and raised his head.
A gasp slipped from Alice’s lips and Gus’s heart contracted. His dad’s normally ruddy face was paler than Gus had ever seen it and although the older man’s gaze was directed down the alley towards them, his eyes were glazed and unfocussed as if he was elsewhere. Gus began to walk towards his dad, but had taken only two steps when his dad moved towards them, his gait slow and hesitant like all the energy had been sapped from his limbs.
‘Dehydrated, I bet.’ Alice marched over to one of the CSI vans and helped herself to a bottle of water from the chiller.
‘Dad?’ Gus moved; arms stretched to help his father. ‘You OK?’
Dr McGuire started as if only just noticing his son. ‘Ah, it’s you, Angus.’ The smile was slow to come to his face, and although he tried, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. The familiar wrinkles indicating his ever-present good humour were absent.
Alice thrust the bottle of water towards him with a, ‘Hey, doc, you look dapper today, despite what Gus says.’
Again, he smiled, but it was strained, the only creases appearing across his forehead were worry lines. ‘Ah, the delightful Alice. Lovely to see you. Sunday lunch on, well … Sunday?’
Alice looked uncertainly at Gus, who was studying his father, a frown furrowed across his brow. ‘Dad, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you feeling OK?’
Waving his hand, Dr McGuire made a concerted effort to straighten himself and wipe the frown from his face. ‘Of course, laddie. Why widnae I be?’
‘You look…’
‘Och away wi ye, Angus. I’m fine. You’ve got quite a crime scene there. Glad you asked me to look at the body in situ. I’ll schedule the PM for later today.’ He stepped aside as two CSIs escorted the body, now concealed in a body bag, out to the waiting mortuary van. Gus, Alice, and Dr McGuire stood in respectful silence as it passed. What a way to leave this world.
Placing a shovel-sized hand on Gus’s shoulder, Dr McGuire stepped round his son and at a brisk pace headed for his BMW. ‘I’ll let you know when the PM’s done. Send Taffy, will you? That laddie loves a guid post-mortem.’
Gus watched as his dad stowed his bag in the boot and hefted his massive frame behind the wheel. With a quick toot toot of his horn, he was gone.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ Gus looked at Alice. ‘Something’s not right with the auld yin and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.’
‘He seemed fine earlier.’
‘Yeah, he did, but there’s no way a crime scene like that would have affected the old bugger like that. He’s seen loads worse.’
What Gus didn’t want to say out loud was that he was concerned with his father’s health – and after his sister’s cancer ordeal the previous year, Gus wasn’t about to allow his parents to keep him out of the loop on that one. ‘Come on. I need a doughnut sugar rush after all of this. Let’s get back to The Fort.’
Chapter 7
Bradford
The man, dressed all in black, a hood pulled over his head, mask on his face, hands gloved, lies across the roof beams in the attic of the hous
e in Princeville Terrace. He has a rucksack and all the tools of his trade open on a loft board beside him. The dark doesn’t bother him; besides, it isn’t pitch-black up here.
How exciting is this? He’s here, quiet as the proverbial mouse, in the dark, listening to them flitting around beneath him, collecting evidence, talking about what sort of killer this is. Their tones hold a mixture of awe and horror and that makes him happy. They have no idea just how clever he is. Stuffing his fist into his mouth to muffle the giggle that almost erupts, he smiles in the darkness. The fact that they have no idea just how close he is, thrills him. If they think to search the attic, everything would be lost – he’d be caught before he’s even really started and that in itself is an intoxicating thought. He considered the risks of remaining on site and in the end decided they were negligible. The assumption would be that his prey had let him in – isn’t that the normal way of things after all?
Of course they’ll keep an eye out for the perpetrator returning to the crime scene, to be part of the action, but little do they know that the guy they’re looking for is only feet away from them. It’s perfect and yet so obscure they’ll have no idea that he can hear every word they say. Every breath they take – hey, is that a song? Again, the giggle rolls up his chest, but he’s too professional, too controlled, to let it burst free.
At first it seems to be just the CSIs. They’re tramping about, fingerprinting, photographing, bagging anything they think might mean something, but they’ve left Miranda ‘in situ’ as they call it. Poor cow. As if it’s not undignified enough to be hanging in the nude, but you’ve to hang in there until the detectives get their rocks off looking at you too.
