by Diane Saxon
Ryan settled himself deeper into the chair. ‘Just his client?’
She grinned. ‘Yeah, and probably the bloody Law Society Annual Dinner had some influence. I could bet this month’s salary he’ll roll up drunk in the morning, not having been to bed.’
‘Won’t he send someone else?’
‘No. He’s functioned like this for years. Got banned from driving years ago, realised it was a good wheeze to have a chauffeur and has carried on with that ever since.’ She ran her fingers over the top sheet of paper on the file. ‘We have his DNA, you know, Ryan. We’ve confirmed it’s a match. There’s no disputing it and Pearson almost bloody confessed.’
‘Pearson. Yeah.’
Jenna placed her panini on the desk next to the coffee and steepled her fingers in front of her as she frowned at Ryan while her thoughts still niggled. A worm of discomfort heating her stomach ‘Why do you ask? Why wouldn’t we have the right person?’
Ryan rubbed his fingers over his lips. ‘I don’t know. Something just doesn’t fit. You know.’
She did know. She knew exactly what he meant. She felt it herself, but she couldn’t find the right thread to pull.
She leaned forward, her gaze searching his in the hope she could extract whatever the hell it was they were both looking for. ‘What, Ryan? Tell me.’
Frustrated, he slapped his hand on the arm of the chair and surged to his feet. ‘I don’t know, for God’s sake. Something isn’t right.’
Jenna flicked her gaze up as Donna raised her head and then pushed away from her desk to saunter across the room just as Mason returned. ‘Mason.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Ryan’s not happy that we have the right suspect in custody.’ She threw him to the wolf in the hope that Mason would wipe all of their doubts away in a blinding moment of reality and pragmatism.
‘I didn’t say—’
‘Okay.’ Mason lowered himself into the chair Ryan had just vacated and surprised her by not immediately reeling off all the reasons why their arrest was correct. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his legs and dangled his hands between his knees. ‘So, what is it you’re not comfortable with?’
Donna leaned her backside on the desk as Ryan paced away and then back again, his blue eyes bright and tortured as the name burst from him. ‘Marcia.’
Jenna crossed her arms over her chest and let Mason continue. ‘Tell me about Marcia.’
Ryan’s bright mind, once released, churned out his doubts. ‘It’s not the same.’
‘In what way?’
‘The MO. It’s supposed to be the same as McCambridge – a clever emulation of his past murders. A copycat.’
Mason nodded. ‘It is.’
‘Exactly.’ Ryan shot a finger out at Mason. ‘But the others aren’t. They’re supposed to be. Again, it’s supposed to have been a great imitation of McCambridge’s murders. Like McCambridge instigated them, engineered them himself. But they’re not. None of the others bear any resemblance to the first. They’re bungled. There’s no traceable DNA at Marcia’s, as though he was too clever, too thorough.’ Ryan scratched his forehead as he paused. Brow pulled low over his eyes, he searched Jenna’s face. ‘If we take Marcia Davies out of the equation, pretend her murder never happened, what have we got?’
Jenna flicked open her file and removed the photograph of Marcia, lining the others up for everyone to see.
‘A mess. That’s what we’ve got.’ Mason stabbed his forefinger on each of the photographs. ‘He’s right. The lad’s right.’
The fine thread started to unravel.
Donna turned around and Jenna pushed up from her chair as all four of them leaned over the desk to study the photographs.
Jenna pointed at each victim in turn, Karen, then Eleanor. ‘Neither of these worked. Usually a killer improves, just like McCambridge did, each one becoming cleaner, tidier, as he worked towards his perfection.’
‘Exactly.’ Mason swiped up her coffee and took a swift gulp, not even affording her an apologetic grin as he would normally, so absorbed in the information in front of them.
Ryan slipped Marcia’s photograph back on top of the others. ‘This was his perfection. The first one. An exact replica of McCambridge’s fourth victim.’ He placed that photograph by the side and traced his finger over the outline of each victim. ‘Each one intended to be a nurse. Throat slit, make-up applied, major DNA clean-up carried out, body posed like a mannequin. No rape.’ He screwed his eyes closed for a moment, then relaxed as the revelation washed over him at the same time it hit Jenna. ‘This is the work of a psychopath.’ He pointed at McCambridge’s fourth victim. And then to Marcia Davies. ‘This is the work of a psychopath. Perfection.’ He gathered the photographs and pushed them to one side to expose the most recent victims. ‘This is a rapist who happens to kill.’
Jenna fell back into her chair, slapping her hands over her face. ‘Ah shit. Ryan’s right. I knew it! It didn’t add up.’
Horror struck her.
‘There are two of them. We’ve got a second copycat on our hands.’
49
Thursday 13 February, 21:00 hrs
‘Oh, you clever girl.’
He took time to clean the blade he’d swiped from her mother’s knife block with her dishcloth and bleach. Sterilised it so there was nothing to contaminate his handiwork. This one would be absolute perfection. His pièce de résistance. The press would go wild. The police would rip their hair out and the public would scream their panic.
Better still, it would tip the balance with McCambridge. He’d be ripped apart. Emotionally, psychologically. It would be interesting to observe.
He chuckled to himself. The thought that someone else could mimic McCambridge, improve upon the original and gain far more police and public awareness than ever McCambridge had would send him over the edge.
His own omnipotence vibrated a warm heat from his centre outwards, pulsing with growing power. He’d bested the original. It hadn’t been difficult. Wicked laughter burst from his lips at the irony. McCambridge would never know. He’d taught him everything, but the man would never have the pleasure, the glory, of knowing who had bettered him. It would drive him insane.
Just one more, and he was done. He had the strength to stop. The superiority of his skill etched for all time on the minds of the police and the heart of Paul McCambridge.
Empowered, he turned to face Carla, knife in hand. ‘Clever girl. Not clever enough though. You thought you’d escaped me.’
Deep satisfaction rumbled through him as her eyes went wide and blinked in panic-stricken fear. The small, desperate squeaks from behind the brown sticky tape he used on her served to thrill him more. If he whipped away the tape, would she scream for him?
Cool control stayed in place and he restrained himself. Keep the tape on her mouth, the restraints on her wrists and ankles. That was the way it needed to be. Take no risks, let the thrill be about the control.
‘You did escape. Initially. But just like everyone I deal with, you became over-confident. You couldn’t resist the boast. This is the trouble with the human psyche. It has to be nurtured, massaged. And you massaged your ego in public.’
With the knife in hand, he hunkered down in front of her, close enough to notice the thin, spider veins popping in her eyes. It hadn’t been difficult to gain access to the house. He gave the young guy who dropped her off three minutes to get away and then knocked on the door. She’d thought it was her date come back. Stupid woman, just opened the door wide, and he stepped in.
‘You challenged me.’ He circled the knife around, amused to see how long she could hold her breath. As she snorted it out through her nose in a panic-infused exhalation, he touched the tip of the knife to her throat and made her hold her breath again, ‘You should never have challenged me.’ Interested by the white of her face in contrast to the blood building under the skin of her neck, he narrowed his eyes. As it suffused over her face, he leaned back on his heels. McCambri
dge had his own reasons for choosing redheads, but it suited his needs too. They were a perfect barometer of feelings. Every one of them displayed over features unable to hide a single emotion.
Satisfied, he reached out to skim a light finger over her naked leg. As a fresh burst of terrified squeaks erupted from her throat, he patted her knee. ‘Have no fear of that, my darling.’ He gave a slight squeeze. ‘I’m not interested in your sexual favours.’ Her body went completely still, every twitch and shake halted as she stared at him, her eyes speaking volumes. ‘Oh no. If I want sex, there are plenty of women I can have sex with. Look at me. Believe me, I don’t have a problem in that department, my lovely.’ He shifted to make himself more comfortable and pushed a gloved hand through his thick, blond hair. ‘I’m not a rapist.’ Her neck contracted on a hard swallow. ‘I know. People believe if you commit one crime, you’re capable to committing any crime.’ He bestowed her with a soft smile as he stroked a finger along the peachy skin of her cheek. ‘That’s where McCambridge made his mistake, you see, he looked for the wrong personality. He engaged a rapist to carry out a psychopath’s job.’ Unable to bear the burn in his thighs any longer, he came to his feet and stretched out his legs to get the blood flowing back into them. ‘I don’t rape.’ The brief flicker of relief was short lived, much to his satisfaction. ‘I kill.’
With a deliberate move, he placed the knife on the small wooden kitchen table in perfect line next to the smaller knife he’d already cleaned. He made a soft humming noise of satisfaction in the depth of his throat.
Unable to resist, he picked up the smaller knife, held it in front of his face.
‘I think the serrated edge would make a lovely pattern. What do you think?’ He slanted her a sharp smile, one he reserved especially for women. He flicked his left eyebrow up in question.
The breath whistled in through her nose and her frantic gaze flashed up to the wall clock.
‘Oh no, mummy won’t be home for a while yet. I watched her go earlier after I followed you home after the lady in the mini dropped you off in Wellington. I had no idea you lived so close to mummy. She’s on half-nights, I believe.’ He pointed the knife towards the long, thin cat calendar beside the fridge ‘She doesn’t finish work until two in the morning. Plenty of time for us to play.’ He sent her another smile, this time indulgent. ‘Like mother, like daughter. Who’d have known she was a nurse too? You followed in your mummy’s footsteps.’ He pointed the knife towards the hallway walls littered with photographs of the two of them, proud mum and daughter. ‘In more ways than one. You look so like her.’ He reached out and fondled one of her long, auburn locks. ‘Especially your hair. Although, hers is a little faded.’ He came closer and bent at the hips so he could stare into eyes, frantic with fear, enough to send delight skittering over his flesh. ‘You led me to her. And now I’ll have all night with you, and all day with her.’
Terror wrenched an animalistic howl from her throat, and she shook her head, rocking her body back and forth as hard as possible on the spindle-backed chair while she growled out her fury at him.
He closed his eyes, tipped his head back onto his shoulders and breathed in the air, cleansing his soul, the sharp knife held in his left hand.
‘Oh, now this is going to be fun.’
He slashed the knife down with a vicious slice across her chest and joined Carla’s muffled scream with his laughter as blood splattered over the clear plastic matting he’d laid out. This time there would be no mistakes.
50
Thursday 13 February, 21:00 hours
Ryan’s breathing came fast and erratic.
‘Oh God. What do I do?’
Confused, Jenna gawped at him as he almost tore his hair out while he completed a full circuit of the office.
‘I dropped her off. I dropped Carla off after everything she told me, and I said she’d be safe.’ Intense blue eyes wide and frantic met Jenna’s. ‘Sarg, I told her she’d be safe. I said we’d caught him.’ He thumped his chest with both fists.
With panic lacing through her own veins, Jenna banked her emotions and took firm control. ‘Ryan. Stop.’ He froze. ‘Listen to me. What did Carla tell you?’
His breath juddered into a heaving chest. ‘She said she thought she was being watched. She said he’d been in her house. Her house. But she’d left and taken the cat and gone to stay with her mum a couple of miles down the road.’
‘Okay. What else?’
‘She thought it was her imagination, that she was tired and overstressed. She thought someone had fed her cat, taken a favourite mug, moved things, ahhh…’ He blew out a long breath. ‘I can’t remember everything she said, she was stoked, you know. I told her to come in tomorrow morning and we’d take a statement, because I thought we had him and any information she had would be important. We do have him.’ His eyes turned glassy. ‘But the wrong him for Carla.’ He ground his knuckles into his eyes. ‘She said he was there today when she went for a run. Watching her. She said she could feel his gaze on her. That it was evil. And I told her she’d be safe. That we’d got him. But we haven’t’
‘Right. Where is Carla now?’
He sucked in a breath. ‘Her mum’s house. I dropped her off just before I came back in.’
Relief almost swallowed her. ‘You have her address, Ryan?’
He gave a wobbly nod.
‘Good.’ She swiped up her handbag and looked around at the other two, injecting a false lightness into her voice, ‘Anyone fancy a trip out to see Ryan’s new girlfriend?’
51
Thursday 13 February, 21:30 hours
In the pitch dark of the pouring rain, the four of them stood on the doorstep of Carla’s mum’s house.
Silent. They listened.
Jenna’s heart pounded so loud, no other noise could be heard above it other than the steady thrash of rain.
As she frowned into Ryan’s face, Jenna reached for a small torch, something she always carried since Fliss’s disappearance. Always prepared. Just as she’d learned to carry a warm coat and a pair of gloves for those unexpected moments.
She touched her finger to the on switch and Mason stayed her hand. ‘Sssh.’
‘MIAOW!’
The shrill, piercing screech shot Jenna’s heart into her throat as a huge, wet black cat wound its way through her legs and let out loud pleading screeches to be let into the house.
‘Fuck’s sake!’ Mason clamped a hand on her shoulder. ‘Nearly shit myself.’
As her heart settled down, Jenna squatted to stroke the cat. ‘Where’s your mum, kiddo?’
‘It’s Carla’s cat. It’s got to be. She talked about her, how someone else had fed her.’ Ryan reminded her as he hunkered down next to her. ‘The house is completely dark. That’s just weird. I dropped her off less than an hour ago. I watched her go in, she turned on lights in there straight away.’
‘Maybe she’s in a room at the back.’
‘I’ll go around back and check,’ Mason volunteered.
As they waited for Mason to negotiate his way to the back of the house, Donna peered over Ryan’s shoulder at his phone. ‘Did she respond to your text?’
‘No.’
‘What should we do, Sarg?’ Donna asked.
‘We’ll give Mason a moment to get around to the back, then we’re going to ring the doorbell and see if we can rouse up some response.’
Donna nudged in between them. Soaked through, she shuffled closer under the porchway. ‘She’s probably in the bath with a glass of wine. I would be.’
‘She’s going to think I’m a right headcase,’ Ryan mumbled.
The cat let out another plaintive yowl just as Airwaves kicked into vivid life with Mason’s voice yelling, ‘Go, go, go. He’s got her in there. He’s got a knife. Holy shit, the fucking security light’s come on. He’s seen me!’
Jenna’s heart skipped a beat as she grabbed the door handle and pushed. Unexpectedly unlocked, the door exploded inwards and she shot through the box hallwa
y straight into the galley kitchen.
Shock flashed through the horror as Jenna’s wet shoes skidded over the smooth black and white tiles, sending her into an treacherous skid halfway across the small kitchen, her shoes bunching up a transparent plastic sheet on the floor.
Staggered, her heart squeezed tight in her chest as her eyes widened in disbelief while Donna and Ryan almost ploughed into the back of her.
In an explosion of glass and splintering of old wood, Mason burst through the French windows, straight through the small open-plan dining area and froze halfway across the floor.
Breath soughing in her chest so hard, she hadn’t the ability to speak. Jenna barely absorbed the evil intent in the man’s frenzied gaze as it clashed with hers. Blue eyes, blond hair and a handsome face twisted with menace. Recognition paralysed her.
With a flash of a grin, he fisted a handful of red hair, wrenched Carla’s head back to expose the delicate, creamy flesh of her neck.
‘This one’s for you, Jenna. Just for you.’ He brought his knife up in a smooth move to slash Carla’s exposed throat wide open.
Jenna flung up one hand. ‘Denton, stop! Don’t!’
With a split second to register the sheer terror radiating from Carla’s eyes, Jenna knew with certainty that Denton Harper had no intention of surrendering, just as he knew none of them stood a chance of reaching him before he killed his next victim.
She went with her instinct, whipped her hand around the strap of her handbag and lobbed it underarm across the room.