by GS Rhodes
They never found him. Alive or dead.
To this day, Kidd had no idea where Craig had gotten to. He ignored every call, every text message, every email. He either ignored them, or he couldn’t answer. Kidd had no idea. The police closed the case and Craig joined an ocean of people destined to never be found. It was enough to drive a person crazy.
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Liz said. “But it worries me, Ben. I know you loved him.” Kidd winced a little at the past tense. “I know that, but you can’t keep waiting for the phone to ring. You can’t keep waiting for your life to start again, because if you wait for it to start, you’ll blink and the whole thing will have passed you by, you know? Maybe you need a hobby.”
Kidd shrugged, taking a long swig of his drink, and then another, and then another until he could see the bottom of the glass. He let out a shaking breath.
“Do you want one more?” he asked, forcing his smile a little bigger.
Liz sighed. “If you’re buying.”
Kidd got to his feet and headed over to the bar. He squeezed past a few people, edging around tables, and trying to ignore how sticky the floor was. At the bar, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and was struck by how similar he and Liz looked. The same light brown hair, their father’s green eyes, their mother’s full lips. They’d been mistaken for twins on more than one occasion, though Kidd was older, which always put Liz in a fantastic mood.
The bartender shuffled over to him, a sheen of sweat present on her forehead, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail so severe it lifted her entire face. Kidd’s mum would have called it a Croydon facelift.
“What can I get you?” There was a whine to her voice, the end of the sentence seeming to go on forever.
“Um—”
“Let me,” someone interrupted to Kidd’s right. He was tall, dark hair swept over into an effortless little quiff, eyes sparkling from the lamps positioned along the bartop.
“You don’t have to,” Kidd said firmly.
“No, really, I want to,” the man said, reaching out a hand. “John.”
Kidd sighed. This wasn’t exactly a regular occurrence, it was just enough to knock him off balance. He didn’t want to be rude, so he smiled and took it. “Ben,” he said. “And it’s really not necessary.” He turned back to the bartender. “A pint of Aspalls and a large glass of your house white.”
“Gotcha,” the bartender said, turning to go get the drinks, the ‘a’ of the “Gotcha” lingering on like a drone.
“Just a gin and tonic for me please, darling,” the man said, flashing her the most perfect set of teeth Kidd had ever seen. The bartender shrugged and walked away. She didn’t care who was buying them, she was just wishing her shift was over. Kidd couldn’t blame her. This might have been his local, but the place itself was pretty grim. Wall to wall middle-aged men who had no doubt been hitting on her since the second they walked in. At least it might not have been so bad as it was a Wednesday night. At a weekend it had to be a nightmare.
“Let me buy you and…” The guy, John, turned to the table Kidd had come from. So he had been watching him long enough to see where he’d come from. Interesting. “Your sister a drink.”
“Is that a guess or a hope?”
“You’re not wearing a wedding ring, so it can’t be a wife,” John said with a raise of his eyebrow.
“Oh, so you’re a detective.” The irony wasn’t lost on Kidd.
“Hardly. Just trying my luck.”
Kidd’s drinks were placed in front of him. “I’ll just pay for these please,” Kidd said, before turning back to John. “Bad luck this time, I’m afraid,” he added as he tapped his card on the reader. “Thanks all the same.”
Kidd was about to grab his drinks when John stepped a little closer to him. Kidd found it equal parts annoying and endearing, this guy was making a huge play here, there was no doubt about it. Kidd was flattered. It almost felt mean to rebuff him again.
“Just take my card,” he said, taking a card out of his pocket and handing it to Kidd. “It’s got my number on it, my email, if you change your mind, just message me, okay?”
Kidd didn’t want to say that he wouldn’t. The guy was trying hard. So, he took a breath and took the card, putting it in his trouser pocket, making a mental note to throw it away when he got home.
John didn’t want to take any more chances, so stepped away from Kidd, who took his drinks and walked back over to the table, trying to ignore his cheeks glowing a little. He put the drinks down and could already feel Liz’s eyes burning holes into him.
“What?” he said when he sat down and took his first sip. The first sip was always the best, even when it was your fourth pint. “Stop staring at me.”
“Was that man at the bar making a move on you?”
Kidd shrugged.
“Ben! What the hell?!”
“Keep your voice down,” he hissed. “You’re drawing attention to yourself.”
“What did you say?”
“He wanted to buy me a drink and I politely declined,” Kidd said, trying to give her a look that told her to drop it. “Nothing happened.”
“You did not politely decline, you flirted first,” Liz said. “I saw you. You think just because I’m married I can’t see flirting happening right in front of my face?” She was practically screaming it and there were a couple of older men at the tables nearby looking over with absolute disgust radiating from their faces.
“Liz, I told him I wasn’t interested,” Kidd said. “He wanted to buy me a drink, well, both of us actually, but I declined and now here I am, can we change the subject?”
Liz opened her mouth to say something but quickly closed it.
Kid sighed. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Liz.”
It was Liz’s turn to sigh. “Just was going to say he could have been your hobby, that’s all.”
She descended into laughter and even Kidd couldn’t keep himself from laughing with her. But there were still the thoughts of Craig sitting at the edges of Kidd’s mind that even another drink couldn’t take away. And as he wandered home later, long after the conversation had drifted away from such things, Kidd couldn’t help but wonder if the only hobby he really had, was missing Craig.
How pathetic.
CHAPTER THREE
Kidd wandered his usual route home, stumbling a little as he walked the path up towards his house. He’d walked Liz home first, despite her complaining about the cold, and apologised profusely to Greg about how drunk she was. He didn’t seem to mind. He’d seen her giving birth, seeing her shitfaced was hardly going to put him off.
He got the key in the door at the third attempt and stepped inside, welcomed by the slight chill in the air where the heating hadn’t switched itself on and the usual silence that seemed to linger here.
Even with the sound of the traffic on the road outside, it still felt so incredibly quiet. The noises of the pub had long-stopped ringing in his ears and the silence now filling his head was more deafening than he ever thought possible.
He took a breath and shut the door behind him with a thud, shutting out the last bit of sound, the last bit of streetlight.
He took his coat off and hung it by the door, wiping his shoes on the mat before kicking them off and putting them in their usual spot. He started to wonder if he should get a dog, someone to greet him when he walked in the door. It might make things feel a little less… lonely. A dog would be excited to see him. Though maybe in his line of work it would be cruel to get a dog. He’d have to pay somebody to come and walk it every day, especially if he was on lates. Maybe a cat.
He shook his head. Maybe nothing at all.
Kidd walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, downing it before refilling it once again. He took it upstairs to his bedroom where he placed it on his bedside table. He switched on the lamp and sat on his bed in the soft orange glow.
If anything were to happen to him and
his colleagues walked in here looking for clues of the kind of life he lived, it would all be here, laid out like the perfect picture of a single man. There were clothes and underwear left on the floor that needed to be washed at least a week or so ago. There was a pile of plates by the door from breakfasts in bed gone by, toast mostly, occasionally scrambled eggs if he felt like treating himself.
He rolled his eyes at that.
In what universe is scrambled eggs a treat?
A stack of half-read books on his bedside table and the remnants of last night’s water. At least the bed was made. That was something. They might be fooled into thinking that in the mornings he had his life together and, as the day passed by, he lost control little by little.
He stood back up and threw the clothes into the washing basket, before grabbing the plates from the chest of drawers by the door and running them downstairs and stacking them in the dishwasher. When he got back upstairs, the bedroom already looked better, less like a war zone.
He sighed and sat back on the bed, picking up his phone to see that it was barely 10 pm.
When did I become the kind of person who was in before 10 pm? he thought.
Then it started to ring in his hand, a horrible coincidence that almost made him instantly hang up. Until he saw who it was that was phoning him.
Patrick Weaver.
DCI Patrick Weaver.
For a moment that felt like it stretched into hours, Kidd stared at the ringing phone, the vibrations tickling his fingers. What on earth was DCI Weaver calling him for?
Whatever it was, he knew it couldn’t be good.
With a heavy breath, Kidd answered. “Hello?”
“Kidd?” Weaver growled down the phone, a thick, Scottish baritone.
“Weaver,” Kidd replied, brightening his voice perhaps a little too much. It was like he was trying to convince a parent he wasn’t a little bit tipsy. “How are you?”
“Good, Kidd, good,” Weaver said. There was something in the way he said good that Kidd didn’t like, as if he was having to force the words out. “Is it a bad time?”
“No, not at all, sir,” Kidd replied, standing up and starting to pace around his bedroom, thankful he wasn’t having to kick clothes out of the way as he walked. “What can I do for you?”
“Um…” Weaver trailed off. Kidd knew he was still there because he could hear him breathing into the receiver. If he was struggling to even get the word out, then this couldn’t be good at all. There was a shuffling of papers on the other end of the line.
10 pm and Weaver is still in the office, Kidd thought. The boss usually vanished as soon as the clock hit 5 pm, sometimes before if he could swing it. This is not going to be good.
Kidd took the initiative.
“It’s a little late, isn’t it?” Kidd offered, stifling a yawn almost to prove his point. “Is everything okay?”
Weaver sighed, the heavy breath distorting the line. “Not really.”
“Oh.”
“Aye,” he rumbled down the phone. “I wouldn’t normally do this, Kidd, you know I wouldn’t.”
“You’re not exactly one for social calls, sir, I assumed it was going to be something work-related when I saw your name on the screen.”
“Aye, right,” Weaver said, taking another breath. “Are you sitting down?”
“No, but the longer you don’t tell me what’s happening, the more nervous you’re making me,” Kidd said, laughing a little. It was a half-truth, his heart rate was certainly up.
Weaver sighed again. “You’re all set to come back in to work next week, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yes,” Kidd answered slowly. “Why?”
“I wouldn’t ask, Kidd, you know I wouldn’t,” he said. “Not unless I thought it was necessary. And what’s a few extra days, hmm?”
“Sir, with all due respect, I’m not totally sure what you’re getting at here.”
“Can you come in tomorrow?” Weaver blurted.
Kidd furrowed his brow, thankful that his boss wasn’t here to see it.
“I suppose,” Kidd said, suddenly regretting the fourth pint. He was going to look a bit of a state if his boss wanted a catch-up tomorrow. “What time?” he asked cautiously.
“Late morning will be fine,” Weaver said. “Say eleven?”
“Alright then, boss, I’ll meet you at the station at eleven,” Kidd said.
The phone line was silent now. Kidd could hear Weaver shuffling about on the other end of the line. There was something else. There had to be something else, there was no way Weaver would be calling this late at night unless something—
“It’s The Grinning Murders, Kidd,” Weaver added suddenly. “We found a body a couple of days ago and… well… it looks mighty similar.”
Kidd felt like the rug had been pulled out from beneath his feet.
“Kidd?” Weaver asked. “Kidd, are you still there?”
DI Benjamin Kidd’s legs practically gave way beneath him as he sat down on the bed, the words running around in is head.
The Grinning Murders, he thought. It’s impossible.
CHAPTER FOUR
Kidd could remember The Grinning Murders as clear as day.
It had been fifteen years ago, but something like that wasn’t easy to forget, at least not in a hurry. It was one of his early cases as a DC. He remembered people saying to him when the body was found, “That’ll put hairs on your chest,” and the like, but he hadn’t imagined it would follow him around for the rest of his career, haunting him. Just the mention of it pulled up the images in his head. The bodies of the victims lying face up on the ground, crosses for eyes cut into their cheeks, their necks splayed open like a big red smile. He’d seen too many of them—three, though it was almost four—before they’d managed to catch the guy.
Albert Hansen. Just thinking the name sent a shiver down his spine.
They’d brought him in for questioning early on in the case, dragging him out of the house in front of his son, and he’d somehow managed to talk his way out of it. Imagine the shock to everyone on the team when the needle pointed back at Hansen and they realised he’d managed to pull the wool over their eyes.
When it came down to it, they only just managed to rescue the woman who was supposed to be his next victim.
“Kidd, you still there?” Weaver asked, a worried tone prevalent in his voice now. Of course, he was worried, that had been such a huge case for Kidd, everybody knew it. He’d been the one who’d helped to put two and two together and come up with Hansen. He was the one that had found Hansen about to kill the fourth vicitim, the one who had chased him and tackled him to the ground. His name was all over it. The two things practically went hand in hand. Kidd and The Grinning Murders. A match made in hell.
“Still here, sir,” Kidd managed, though his voice sounded a little less bright now. He needed a drink. Water. His mouth suddenly a desert. He grabbed the cup from his bedside table and downed half of it in one go. He took a breath before he spoke again. He needed details. He didn’t want them, but if Weaver was bringing this up with him then he wanted Kidd involved. “When?”
“What’s that?”
“When did you find a body?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm even as the phone shook in his hand.
“Three days ago,” he said. “Got called in by a couple of university students who stumbled upon it in Bushy Park.”
“Bushy Park, Jesus Christ.” Kidd sighed. That wasn’t even that far from where he was now, not in the grand scheme. If he walked through town and out the other side he would be there.
“My thoughts exactly,” Weaver replied.
“But Hansen is in prison, isn’t he?” Kidd said. Surely if someone like that had been let out early for good behaviour the media would have had a field day.
“Still there,” Weaver said, flatly. “Like you said, I don’t normally do social calls and I’m sure you’ve been coping fine on leave and this probably wasn’t what you were expecting to come back to.”
A case that was closed fifteen years ago? Kidd thought. Certainly not.
“But there isn’t anyone who knows the case like you do, Kidd,” Weaver said. “At least not someone who’s still on the job. So, if you wouldn’t mind—”
“I’ll be there,” Kidd interrupted. “Eleven still work for you?”
“Perfect,” Weaver said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow, sir.”
“And Kidd,” Weaver said quickly. “Try and get some sleep tonight, eh? It’s going to be a long one tomorrow, I imagine.”
Kidd swallowed. He was used to the long hours, he’d done more than his fair share of eighteen-hour shifts since he joined the Met, but if there was someone out there copycatting Albert Hansen, all-nighters weren’t off the cards. “Yes, sir.”
Weaver hung up and Kidd sunk back down onto the bed, staring at the phone in his hand. Had that even just happened? The Grinning Murders had been so long ago. Sure, every now and again he would remember the bodies, remember Hansen, but he’d never thought it would happen again. Not like this. It made it even worse to think that it wasn’t even Hansen doing it this time around, some nutcase, some fanatic. Weaver had told him to get to some sleep, but how was he supposed to sleep after all that?
After everything they’d gone through trying to get to the bottom of it the first time around…
The media had an absolute field day, a serial killer in a Royal Borough, like crime didn’t exist if it wasn’t somewhere in Central London. Between having to deal with the vultures writing their think pieces on how terrible the police were and actually having to catch the killer, Kidd was run off his feet, the whole team had been. It was enough to have all of them signed off with stress by the end, but they’d just gotten back to work, business as usual. The newspapers had forgotten about it a few days later, like they hadn’t just saved a woman’s life.
But that was how it always seemed to be. The media would hound the police about what it was they were doing wrong, criticise and harass until they made the Commissioner come out with a statement. Then, the case would be solved and someone would be a hero for five minutes before they moved on to the next thing to complain about, the next police officer caught doing something wrong.