by Liz Mistry
He’s pleased with how things have unfolded This being the first one in a long time, there’s a concern that he’ll have forgotten a critical detail – but no. It all went off like clockwork.
From the little notch he made in the roof near the hallway light, light seeps in and through the hole he hears everything that’s going on beneath him, secure in the knowledge that no one is aware of his presence. The thought that he is tricking them, getting the better of them makes this entire activity so rewarding. They might focus their attention on a gathering crowd outside in the street, looking for someone who gives the appearance of dodginess, someone who appears a tad too interested in the police activity. Of course, as his work continues, they’ll extend that to include people who are loitering at both crime scenes. But that would be a futile effort, and this amuses him.
He smiles underneath his balaclava. Never in a million years would they expect that their perpetrator is lying just above their heads, listening into their conversations and deliberations, entertained by their perplexed musings and getting valuable insight into how they intend to progress their investigation.
At first it was just the crime scene techs fumbling about, uselessly taking fingerprints from a variety of surfaces, hoping against hope that one of the smudges might belong to him. He flexes his fingers, slightly sweaty in the tight-fitting leather gloves. They’ll ultimately be disappointed, figure out that they’ve been set up, yet they won’t realise till it’s too late. He would always be a step ahead of them. Random fingerprints obtained using the tape method and transferred from the Wetherspoons in town will give them a suspect. It doesn’t matter to the Man in Black who that suspect is – it won’t be him and that’s all that counts. It’ll set them off down a wrong path, take up their time and energies, and all the time he’ll be laughing at them. Planning his next one.
They’re bagging things too, talking all the time. He tenses as one of them calls him a ‘sick fucker’. He’d like to swing down from the loft and deal with that disrespectful creature, but he won’t. He listens carefully. He is good with voices – and if he listens, he’ll learn her name, he’ll find out all about her – it’s easily done – all it needs is half decent computer skills and an ounce of common sense. He’ll extract payback, one way or another. He enjoys strangling – but he can be equally happy with a swift knife job to the abdomen. Yes, that bitch will pay. He was looking for a target close to the investigation and this one has just delivered herself into his lap. His grin widens. He’s got her name now – Erica, now that’s a start. A CSI called Erica won’t be very hard to find.
Someone else is talking now. A male voice. ‘Wonder what all the stuff laid out beneath her is?’
‘Ritual, I reckon.’
That’s the Erica cow – smart-ass, know it all. He’ll enjoy making her pay. It’s not really a ritual – but he wants them to think that. They’re not smart enough to work out that it’s a subterfuge. It’s all smoke and mirrors, but he doubts they’ve got the capacity to understand that.
Raised voices are drifting up the stairs now. Someone else on the scene. He presses his ear to the crack. Yes – he’s here now. DI Gus McGuire. One of the ones he’s been waiting for. McGuire’s voice is deeper than he expected. He doesn’t mince his words, says it like it is. He’s picked up on the strangeness of the scene straight away – not that that’s rocket science. Still, reassuring to know that he’s not a complete idiot. He’s ordered the CSIs who are already upstairs to stay there. Brilliant for him. He’ll maybe get some more info on that Erica cow. They’re not happy, but when I hear McGuire talk about Professor Carlton, my heart skips a beat. This is too much to hope for – far too much. McGuire has realised that this is only the beginning. Brilliant! He so enjoys a worthy adversary. He settles back grinning, humming a little tune in his head. Today is turning out to be better than he’d ever envisioned. It was such a thrill to hear first DI McGuire’s, steady confident tones and then Professor Carlton’s jolly, slightly upbeat ones. He’ll have to be careful not to underestimate the man. He’d met people like Carlton before, people who projected a certain image to keep opponents on the hop. No, he won’t succumb to that – he is too wise. Besides, you can never fool a fooler, can you?
Now Gus and Carlton have left the scene, he wonders when the third of the trio will arrive. Dr Fergus McGuire, the estimable DI McGuire’s father – the trustworthy pathologist, with his deep Scottish brogue and heavy steps and audible breathing, he is the slow and trusty tortoise. Again, another one not to be underestimated. Another one with hidden charms. He’s most interested in the pathologist’s reaction. He holds his breath and listens, carefully attuned to the movement below. The big man gasps followed by a long pause where he doesn’t breathe.
Come on, Dr McGuire, don’t forget to breathe, he thinks smiling, satisfied by this reaction. If only the gap was wider, he’d be able to witness the other man’s reaction first-hand. Now all he can do is imagine. Has his face paled? Has he recognised the significance of his little clues … but more importantly, the silence that follows – that elongated pause – that’s the most telling. For the big man doesn’t turn and spill the beans. He doesn’t set off an alert, he doesn’t reveal his knowledge, and that means he can be manipulated.
By the time he’s ready to wiggle back the way he came in silence, he’s buzzing. Not only has he executed his plan to perfection, but he’s also met his top three adversaries. Happier than he could have imagined ever being, the Man in Black wriggles backwards dragging his bag with him, avoiding the creaking floorboards he’s already mapped out. Still, the tune is in his brain as he moves, his head nodding to the beat. Four houses further along the street he’ll swing down from the loft. The house is empty. Didn’t take much for him to gain access. Back-to-back terraces are usually not over-protected security wise – and especially one that’s falling into disrepair like this one. Once out of the loft, the loft door replaced, he drops to the small landing, opens the larger rucksack that awaits him there and gets changed, stripping all the way down to his boxers, and bundling his black clothing, except for his gloves, in a bin bag before getting dressed.
When he gets out of the house, pulling the door shut behind him, he hoists his rucksack onto his back and walks down the alleyway, his peaked cap pulled down over his eyes and sunglasses on. Without a glance down the street to the crime scene below, he walks up towards the main road and out of sight. Nobody notices him and he whistles to himself as he strides out, pleased with a job well done. Pleased that he’s thrown down the gauntlet to the three musketeers. Pleased to be able to move forward with his plans.
He had never expected that he’d end up doing this again. Why would he? Up till now, the previous times had been enough for him – he’d controlled himself. Those other deaths had served their purpose – helped put him where he was today, and he’d achieved exactly what he’d wanted to – well nearly. He’d been wise enough not to blow his cover by repeating the same modus operandi – that’s what the ‘experts’ call it. He hadn’t needed to. Not when he could do the job at source. OK, he had to be careful – couldn’t do it too often – didn’t want to create a pattern – but it all helped keep his impulses in check.
He isn’t a sick man – no, not at all, however, he does like a challenge. Of course, he does, who doesn’t? He smiles. Well, sadly not everyone, which is why he finally ended up here forty–five years later – for payback – and enjoyment – but mostly for payback. For everything the bitch cost him. Now is the time to shred every aspect of her precious life – bit by bit, layer by layer, person by person.
Chapter 8
Bradford
Gus had been right. The incident room at The Fort on Lilycroft Road was a buzz of activity, doughnuts, and excitement, with Professor Sebastian Carlton, half-eaten doughnut on a napkin before him, pasty legs splayed in a way that made Gus want to cringe centre stage. Of course he is!
DCI, or rather, acting DCS Nancy Chalmers, sat opposite the profess
or, her bright yellow sundress, with an unnecessarily high split up both sides, competing with Carlton’s trainers for most garish colour of the day. Why couldn’t people just stick to neutral colours? The slightest bit of sunshine and there they were, in their droves, dazzling drivers and passers-by with their cacophony of bright hues. Half tempted to turn and leave the room, Gus smelt fresh coffee and eyed the box of doughnuts, so instead, ventured further in. Alice had already pulled up a chair next to Nancy and was listening in to whatever exaggerated serial killer tale Carlton was relating.
In a proprietorial place as close as he could get to his unlikely friend, Compo was yet more evidence of how Gus’s team had succumbed to Lockdown restrictions by embracing neon tints. In a far too bright T-shirt, with an image of Prince or the Artist Formerly Known as Prince on the front, Compo’s head was in danger of falling off his shoulders as he nodded in rhythmic pleasure at every word uttered by his guru. Thank god for Alice. Her one concession to the heat was to wear a black T-shirt instead of a long-sleeved jumper.
Lurking by the coffee machine in the little kitchen space Gus had insisted on as a necessity for the comfort, focus, and dedication of his team, was his newest team member. Taffy grinned at him. ‘Coffee, boss?’
At last sanity prevails. ‘Please, Taff. Oh, and by the way. You’re on for the post-mortem – requested by Dr McGuire no less.’
Gus had given up on attending PMs. His aversion to blood, which he grudgingly admitted, made him a liability in the PM suite and put him through unnecessary torture – twice, because inevitably he had already witnessed the appalling degradation killers inflicted on their victims at the crime scene.
Taffy’s face lit up, his grin wide enough to swallow a doughnut whole. ‘Brilliant! Can’t wait.’
Noticing Gus’s raised eyebrow and realising that his attendance at a PM necessarily meant that some unfortunate person had lost their life, Taffy wiped the smile from his face and handed Gus his coffee. ‘When I say great – well, you know, like. I don’t mean great, great. I mean, like, I’m gutted that someone’s dead.’
Taffy’s eyes widened as he continued verbalising his train of thought. ‘They’ve not been gutted, have they? The victim I mean. Not that I want them to have been gutted, but – you know with the prof here and all, it looks like we’ve caught ourselves a hot one.’
For God’s sake! Biting back the response that sprung to his lips, Gus shook his head. ‘You need to read more. Not all serial killers do the blood and gore shit, you know. Besides, we’re not talking serial killer here, right?’ Gus relented and muttered under his breath, ‘Well, not yet anyway.’
Taffy nodded, his frown demonstrating his contrition.
Coffee cup in hand, Gus snatched up a doughnut, and walked to the front of the room. Compo and Taffy had started the Victim Board, but as yet, the only item on it was an image of the victim, Miranda Brookes, taken from one of her social media accounts with her name carefully printed in Taffy’s best handwriting. As always with these smiling social media photos, the waste of human life was emphasised. Looking at this image, anyone would assume that Miranda Brookes was a carefree happy soul with her life to look forward to. She looked kind and pretty. She had a load of Facebook friends so was probably popular. This was emphasised by the knowledge of her pregnancy. But Gus was well aware that she would have had her ups and down in life. She would have experienced a gamut of emotions, been unkind sometimes, selfish at other times, perhaps maybe even been a queen bitch – whether she was perfect or not, whether she was one of life’s winners or not, was irrelevant to the dedicated process Gus and his team would go through to catch this killer. At the back of his mind, the thought, before he strikes again, niggled and the tension in his shoulders tightened. It was game on and they needed to be the best they possibly could.
Placed on a table next to the board were copies of the crime scene images he’d sent Compo earlier. Not the best – Gus was no photographer – but until the CSI photographer sent over her file of professional grade images and close-ups, they’d have to do. Ideally, he would have liked to have had a word with Carlton before briefing his small team, but he suspected time was of the essence and Carlton could say whatever he was prepared to divulge to the entire team in one go.
With Carlton winding up his story and the room falling into silence behind him, Gus stuck the images of the scene and of Miranda Brookes one by one on the board and then stood to the side, allowing the team to digest them. After a few minutes, during which time he finished his doughnut, thankful for the sugar rush it gave, he stepped forward again. ‘Well? What’s your thoughts?’
He nodded towards Carlton, who, head tilted to one side was studying the images intently as if he’d never attended the crime scene. ‘I’d like the rest of the team’s responses, before we hear your thoughts, professor. If that’s OK?’
Carlton inclined his head with a smile and took his specs off to give them a well-needed clean. Nancy exhaled, and gathering her dress together and stuffing it between her legs, she leant forward. ‘Well, I can see why you wanted Sebastian on this one, Gus. I’m glad I trusted your judgement. Initially, I was inclined to hold off on bringing him in, but…’ She leant over and gripped the professor’s arm in an overly familiar, almost intimate squeeze that made Gus roll his eyes and had Alice covering up a snort of laughter with a coughing fit.
‘But…’ she repeated. ‘I know Sebastian likes to do little favours for us and I’m sure we can stretch to a few packs of his favourite doughnuts.’
While Gus tried desperately to avoid connecting with Alice’s grinning face, not wanting to dwell on any little favours Carlton might do for his boss, Nancy finally moved her adoring eyes away from Carlton and back to the board. ‘Besides, when I took off my DCS hat for a moment and put my DCI hat on, I opted to support my DI. But I’ll let others put forward their ideas, before I stick my tuppence worth in.’
Taffy practically bouncing on his chair, arm in the air, despite Gus’s repeated attempts to re-educate him away from such schoolboy behaviour, couldn’t contain himself anymore. ‘We’ve got a serial killer, boss. That’s a serial killer if ever I saw one. Look at it all – he’s laid stuff out under the body – it’s like a ritual.’
‘Yep.’ Compo nodding like a sycophant, eyes directed towards his mentor, Carlton, looking for approval. ‘Agreed. Ritual – that’s what this is – a ritual. The biscuit, the candle, the foetal scan, the rhyme, the sketch, the lavender…’ He listed each item, counting them off one by one on his fingers as he did so, desperate not to omit any from his list.
‘And the nail varnish!’ Carlton added to the list, his approving nod making Compo blush.
‘Nail varnish?’ Alice looked at Carlton. ‘What makes you think that’s part of this, Prof?’
‘Despite the lavender scent from the candle, I could detect another smell – faint but definitely discernible. It was nail polish remover, and it was definitely coming from her feet.’
Alice peered at the close-up images of Miranda’s feet. ‘Yes, the varnish is quite pristine – must have been applied recently – but what’s to say she didn’t remove her old varnish and apply it herself?’
‘Just a hunch.’ His confident smile belying his next words, Carlton shrugged. ‘I might be wrong, of course – but I told the CSIs to keep an eye out for nail polish in that colour and remover and to get it analysed. I also took the liberty of texting your delightful father to ask him to make sure he also gets the varnish from the victim’s toes analysed.’
Sensing that now was the time for Carlton to share his thoughts, Gus motioned for him to move to the front and moved to sit in the chair the psychologist had vacated. From experience he knew Carlton could talk for ages.
Peering over the top of his neon specs, Carlton smiled at each of the team. ‘It’s great to be back here. I missed you all. However, at this point, I have nothing much to add. I suspect this killer is only just starting and the only way forward is to follow the victimology a
nd the concrete evidence. At some point this killer will have intersected with the poor woman and we need to identify when and where that was.’
He screwed up his face. ‘Or, and it pains me to say this, we’ll end up with more victims.’
He moved over to a vacant chair and sat down.
Momentarily discomfited, Gus paused, before standing again.
‘Any thoughts on the sex of the killer?’
But Gus knew before Carlton began shaking his head that he would get no commitment from the psychologist.
‘I need more information before I can ascertain that with any degree of certainty, Gus. I wouldn’t want to set everyone off down the wrong road so early in the investigation.’
‘Fair enough.’ Gus paused to collect his thoughts for a moment. ‘OK, that seems quite clear. I suggest that Professor Carlton and Compo work on victimology. What other actions do we need to take – apart from the usual neighbourhood interviews, which I’ve already instructed, and the notification of family, which I will do shortly, having already got a Family Liaison Officer ready to step in. We also need to determine how the killer gained access to the Brookes’ home. We know her husband was at work and, it seems his alibi is strong – we’ll interview him later. Which leads me to wonder did Miranda let her killer in or did he barge through the door when she opened it? These back houses are often quite secluded. There were no signs of forced entry on the front door or the windows, which indicates she must have let them in … unless of course he had a key or some other means of access.’
Alice frowned. ‘The only other point of access on the ground floor would be the small kitchen window, but that looks out onto the alley and is quite high off the ground. The killer would be taking a huge chance if he got in that way, don’t you think?’
