by M K Farrar
She continued. “I wondered what you were doing this evening.”
What would he be doing that evening? He’d be going home, having his microwave meal for one, and his one glass of red wine, and going to bed. And in between those things, he be checking he’d locked the door at least four times, but most likely many more times than that, as long as they were in multiples of four. He’d be washing his hands, counting each time, and arranging items on his coffee table to make sure they lined up just so.
But he couldn’t tell her that.
“I...err...I’m probably working on the case.”
“Oh, of course. I understand. You’re busy.”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I would like to go out for a drink with you.”
Her tone brightened. “Great. How about you tell me when you’re free, and then we can arrange it.”
“I’ll need to see what developments take place over the next few days.”
“No rush. Whenever you’re ready.”
Shit. He should have just told her he didn’t want to go out for a drink. But that wasn’t the truth, was it? He did want to go out for a drink with her, to spend a night doing something different and not alone for once, but could he risk it? Did he trust himself enough not to look like he was insane? His biggest fear was that word would get back to his work colleagues. He knew Mallory had noticed some of his habits, the way she’d look at him quizzically when he said he was coming, but then had to stop to straighten the items on his desk. Where her desk was overflowing with paperwork, old coffee cups, and lush green houseplants she’d brought in to brighten up her work space, his by comparison was stark and empty. An outside observer might think that he was just incredibly organised, but anyone who’d known him before Hayley’s death would also know this wasn’t the case. He’d almost been as messy as Mallory before, their desks looking similar—though his plant would have been a lot less healthy than hers—but all that changed. Now he needed to ensure every item was in exactly the right place. Even a few millimetres would bother him, constantly drawing his eye and making him unable to focus on anything else until it was fixed.
“Well, you’ve got my number,” Nikki said. “If you find yourself less busy, you know how to get hold of me.”
An attractive, intelligent woman wanted to go out with him, and he was going to let her slip through his fingers.
“I will,” he said, unable to bring himself to just tell her that they could go out that evening after all. “I’ll look forward to it.”
He glanced up to find Mallory staring at him, her eyebrows raised.
“What?” he questioned her defensively.
“That was pretty lame. You’re too busy? Seriously? Busy doing what? Watching television every evening?”
He straightened his spine. “I don’t see you beating off the men either.”
“I’ve got Oliver to think about.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Sounds like an excuse to me.”
“And what’s your excuse? Take Nikki out. Buy her some drinks and a nice meal. Maybe you’ll get lucky?” She threw him a grin.
He sighed and clicked the mouse on his computer. “I’m just taking my time, that’s all.”
“I’ve got a feeling Hell will have frozen over by the time you make your move. You’re not getting any younger, you know.”
“Gee, thanks.” He rolled his eyes.
Maybe Mallory was right. Perhaps if he thought of the drink as being with a work colleague his compulsions wouldn’t be so bad. He couldn’t stay alone for the rest of his life, could he? Nothing but work and going home to an empty flat. A lifetime of that really could drive a man mad.
Chapter Fourteen
I’ll stay out, Joe decided. Just for a little longer.
He curled up in a doorway, a bedding of folded cardboard boxes placed beneath him to keep out the worst of the cold. He’d been spooked by one of the others spotting him, worried they would talk about him, that suspicions had been raised. So he kept his distance tonight, giving them space so they could forget about him for a little while. He curled up, pulling his sleeping bag up under his chin. Only a matter of feet away, people walked right past him, talking to one another, and most likely not even seeing him. That was good. He hoped to keep it that way. He wanted to remain unseen. Normally, he could console himself that this was only for a few hours, that he could tolerate the discomfort because as soon as it got light, he would take himself home and enjoy a hot shower and a comfortable bed. But being seen heading home had rattled him.
Was it really worth it?
Joe tossed and turned and shifted around, trying to find a comfortable position when there wasn’t one to be found. He finally managed to sleep, his dreams confused and angry. He fought with someone, but he couldn’t see their face, only aware of the emotion inside him, the sadness and sense of betrayal. Others were shouting, too, trying to join in, though he didn’t know who they were.
He jerked awake, suddenly becoming aware that the voice in his dreams came from the real world. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, but then he placed himself in the shop doorway he’d chosen that evening, and it all came flooding back to him.
His heart sank. Three men stood over him. Though it was night and the light from the shop behind him and the streetlights farther away were dim, he could make out their faces enough to see they were all young, early twenties at the most. Two of them held cans of cider, and the third smoked a roll-up that, by the smell of it, contained something else other than just tobacco.
Joe sat up and pushed himself away from the men, his back hitting the shop’s glass window. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Maybe we do, pal.” One of them laughed, but there was no humour in his eyes.
Joe detected a Scottish accent. These men were filled with cruelty, and what they planned right now was like a sport to them.
Joe would happily abandon his belongings—as scant as they were—and make a run for it. Could he dart between them? Their bodies blocked the way, and he envisaged how they’d catch him as he tried, maybe taking him down with a punch to the gut. Trying to run would only give them an excuse to start things.
“Please, I’m not well.” He faked a cough into his hand. “You don’t want to get too close.”
“I’m not going to catch anything through my fucking shoe when I kick you, am I?” Ringleader laughed.
“Maybe we should put him out of his misery,” the man beside him commented. He had the shaven head look of an army boy.
Ringleader snorted. “Yeah, we’ll be doing him a favour.”
“Doing the whole of society a favour,” Scottish said. “These scumbags are just scrounging off others. What do they ever give back?”
Joe struggled to imagine these three pricks giving back anything worthwhile to society. He wanted to ask them what jobs they did and how much tax they paid into the system, but he didn’t think that would go down well, and right now he wasn’t in a position to antagonise them.
He coughed again, trying to make himself look weak. “Please, I’m just trying to sleep. Go and have your fun elsewhere.”
Army-boy mimicked him in a baby voice, “Go and have your fun elsewhere.”
“I just want to be left alone.”
Ringleader stepped in and picked up Joe’s black bin bag. He tipped it upside down and emptied the contents over the ground.
A set of keys tinkled to the pavement. Joe’s house keys.
Scottish scooped down and picked them up. “What the fuck are these? You been thieving off some hardworking person? Planning on robbing their house or something?”
“No, they’re mine. They’re old.”
He’d often thought he should hide the key under a plant pot out the front of his house rather than carry it with him, worried someone might find it one day and ask some awkward questions. Now he was kicking himself for not doing exactly that.
Ringleader sneered. “If you think we’re going to let you keep them
so you can go and rob some innocent family, you can think again.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Shut the fuck up, scumbag,” Army-boy yelled. “Let’s see what else you’ve got.”
The men picked up his other belongings, shaking things out, and throwing them in the gutter.
Just leave it, Joe told himself. He forced himself to take deep breaths and keep his hands clamped to his sides as though they were glued there. Let them have their fun and then they’ll get bored and move on. But his anger burned hot inside him. How dare these fuckers call him a scumbag when they were the ones ganging up on what they believed to be a homeless man. In that moment, he wanted to kill all three of them, to hit them and hit them and hit them, and then tear them limb from limb. They were the cowards. If it was one-on-one, this would never be happening. They’d have put their heads down and kept walking. The only reason they acted so cocky was because they had the backup of their mates.
Ringleader stepped forward and nudged Joe’s foot with his trainer. “Get up. Come on, face us.”
“I don’t want any trouble.” He spoke from between gritted teeth.
“Tough. You’ve already got it.”
The nudge turned into a kick. “I said, get up.”
Joe sucked in a breath. They were leaving him with no choice. If he stayed on the ground, the kicks would continue, and he pictured himself curled up in the corner of the shop doorway while the three of them stood around him, kicking him in the back, the head, the legs. At least if he got to his feet, he might be able to get a swing or two in himself before they took him down. He was never going to win this one—not with three against one. The best he could hope for were that his injuries weren’t life-threatening.
Slowly, Joe climbed to his feet. “Let’s get this over with then.”
One thing he had on them was that they’d all had a fair amount to drink while he was stone-cold sober.
Ringleader stepped forward and threw a punch. Joe pulled his head back, the man’s fist only skimming his jaw. He took advantage of the momentum and swung his own arm, his fist connecting with the ringleader’s jaw and sending him staggering to one side.
Scottish jumped in. “Fucking prick.”
Like Joe was being the arsehole for daring to defend himself.
The remaining two didn’t wait for Joe to prepare himself again. They both jumped him, one of them shoving him back against the wall, so his skull cracked on the concrete. Balled knuckles slammed into his cheekbone, rocking his head back once more, pain exploding through his face. The other punched him in the stomach, and Joe folded in half, the air bursting from his lungs. An uppercut caught him in the mouth, and he tasted blood. He tried to swing back, wanting to get a hit in, and he pummelled with his fists, but blindly now.
Another punch knocked him to the ground, and instinctively he rolled into a ball. He remembered his prediction of how this would end and braced himself for a kick. To his surprise, it didn’t come.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.”
He heard the sound of someone hawking up spit, but he kept his eyes shut, not wanting to see where it hit. He waited, anticipating more violence, but then the laughter and voices grew fainter, and he dared to open his eyes.
They’d gone.
One side of his face throbbed with his heartbeat, and heat radiated from the injury. He tentatively put out his tongue and touched the cut on his lip. It was painful, but he’d got off lightly.
Joe carefully got to his feet and went to pick up the belongings the three men had scattered into the road. Other people walked past, but no one asked him if he was all right, or made any effort to help him pick up his things. He was just another homeless man who’d experienced violence, and no one wanted to get involved.
He wished he could pack up and go back to his flat, but the ringleader had taken his keys. He’d have to go to the rental company and ask for a new set, which was going to cost him, and he didn’t really want to go into their office looking like this. They’d ask questions he didn’t want to answer.
Joe carried his things back to the spot in the shop doorway and rearranged his things. He sat back down on his sleeping bag. At least the weather was dry, and everything hadn’t got wet. He pressed his back up against the shop window and drew his knees up into his chest. There was no way he’d get any more sleep tonight. Hatred at the three men burned inside him. If he saw any one of them when they were alone, he’d make sure they were sorry.
Chapter Fifteen
Ryan had spent the evening of his birthday sitting alone in his flat, fighting the urge to check the locks on his front door. It was pathetic, and he knew it. He should have asked Nikki out for that drink.
He got into the office early again, happy to have work to occupy his increasingly frustrating thoughts.
Movement came beside him, accompanied by the scent of coffee.
“You look like you need this,” Mallory said.
“Thanks, I do.”
She placed his drink on his desk with one hand, her own reusable coffee cup in the other.
“What have you got in yours?” he asked. “Don’t tell me it’s another mocha-frappa-something or another.”
“Nope. It’s hot water and slices of ginger. Great for the digestion.”
He pulled a face. “Sounds awful.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” she said and went back to her desk.
Ryan sipped on his coffee and caught up on some admin, waiting for the rest of his team to get in. He passed the word around that they’d have a briefing at nine a.m.
With everyone accounted for, he got to his feet to get their attention, did a quick roll call, and got started.
“Good morning, everyone. We’ve got two young men, Matthew Gordon and Jacob Tater, killed ten years apart, and one as of yet unidentified body. So far, we haven’t found anything that connects Matthew and Jacob, but they would be the same age now, had Jacob lived this long—and they both had slightly dubious pasts. Both had a history of recreational drug use, so this could be drug related.”
“You think they both might have had a fall out with a dealer?” Linda Quinn asked.
Ryan nodded. “That’s certainly a line of enquiry we need to go down.”
“Could the cutting off of the limbs be gang related?” suggested Shona.
Craig frowned. “Isn’t it normally fingers they cut off?”
“Maybe they took things a step further,” Dev said.
Ryan stood up straighter. “It’s a possibility, but I think it’s more likely the removal of the limbs and the head is an attempt to hide the identities of the victims. We got lucky with IDing the most recent victim because we had his prints on file, but we haven’t been so lucky with the second body. We do, however, know the body is male, and white, and I’d say we can take a good guess at him being in his twenties to early thirties now. The two victims we have ID’d are both white, male, and around a similar age. There has to be a misper report that’ll fit, together with the tattoo on the arm.”
“I’m working on it,” Shonda said.
“Good. Linda, can you contact Jacob’s father in America so we can rule him out?”
“Yes, boss.”
He switched directions. “Dev, how did you get on with the CCTV?”
“Still working on it. Honestly, it’s a total ball-ache, and I’m covering weeks’ worth. I’m having to mark down each license plate number and cross-reference it to the number of times it’s caught on the CCTV and the times and dates.”
He raised a hand. “Don’t be sorry. It’s a time-consuming job.” He looked around at his team. “Right, good work everyone. You all know what you need to be doing. Let’s make some progress on this today.”
A murmur rose among his team as everyone went back to work.
Less than ten minutes later, Shonda Dawson approached his desk. “Boss, I think we’ve got a match on our John Doe. Twenty-eight-year-old Luke Braun. He was reported missing by his wife, Ele
anor Braun, a couple of months ago, and he has a number of tattoos.”
“Excellent work. He fits the profile. How far away does the wife live?”
“Not far. She’s in Redfield.”
“Great, I’ll go and pay her a visit.”
He stopped by Mallory’s desk. “I’m going for a drive. You coming?”
“Sure, anything to get out of the office.”
“Can you drive?” he asked. “I need to make a phone call.”
“No problem.”
On the way, he called Nikki. “How are you getting on with figuring out what the tattoo is on the second victim’s arm?”
“Not great, to be honest. I wish I could tell you more. At a best guess, I’d say the tattoo is of a clock, possibly with a rose or some other kind of flower around it.”
“That’s better than I’d hoped for. It gives us something more specific to go on. We have a misper who matches what we know so far. I’m just on the way to his wife’s house now.”
“I’m not certain,” she warned. “You can’t use it as a definite ID. We’re going to need a DNA analysis for that.”
“Hear you loud and clear.”
He hung up.
Eleanor Braun lived in a three-bed terraced house. Parking was limited, but Ryan managed to find a spot not far down the road. It was never easy breaking news like this to a loved one, and this case was riddled with complications.
“We have to tread carefully,” he told Mallory as they approached the house. “Until we get a DNA match, we don’t know for sure that this is our victim.”
“It’s likely, though, isn’t it? Matches the right times and MO, and if the wife confirms the tattoo, it’s bound to be him?”
“How many people in their twenties have tattoos these days? I’d say the person without the tattoo is more likely to be the odd one out.”
“You’re probably right. I have a few myself.”
Ryan raised his eyebrows. “I won’t ask where they are.”
“Haven’t you ever been tempted to get one?”
