Slow Slicing (DI Bliss Book 7)

by Tony J. Forder

  ‘You okay, sir?’ Bliss asked him.

  Conway huffed his concern aside. ‘Not so’s you’d notice. But let’s get on with it.’

  ‘All right. So, we’re all agreed. It is monstrous. But it also tells us a lot about our perpetrator. First, he has to have room for this. A place that’s easy to bring men into and, perhaps, out of again. Somewhere quiet and unobserved. But mainly it tells us this man is extraordinarily patient. So far, he’s managed to take at least two, probably three, separate men through however many cuts and slices he deems sufficient before severing an appendage. Removal of an entire body part should occur at the point at which death is inevitable. The idea of Lingchi is to keep the victims alive for as long as possible, and the mastery of the art stems from removing enough flesh and parts to inflict enormous pain over an extended period, but without causing death. Although the victim’s death is ultimately unavoidable, the actual skill is in prolonging life while carrying out numerous atrocities.’

  Chandler winced and swallowed. Her face creased as she shuddered and said, ‘If that’s what’s happening to these victims, it’s barbaric.’

  ‘It is.’ Bliss nodded, thinning his lips.

  ‘But if so, then why?’ Conway asked again, bringing them another full circle. ‘I know we keep coming back to the same question, but we’re no closer to answering it.’

  Bliss had formed a theory, and was happy to share it. ‘I’m seeing two paths crossing here. First, to spend this amount of time and have such incredible patience, but also to inflict physical and emotional torture on a person, you have to have a personal grievance against them. Second, whoever is doing this is either seeking to punish you, Pete, or they want you involved in this investigation.’

  Around the table there was mutual consent to pursuing this theory as a backdrop to the three cases. It was Conway who broached the subject of extending the existing joint task force operation to include Riseborough’s team.

  ‘I’m happy for DI Bliss and his Major Crimes unit to continue taking the lead,’ Conway said. He looked across at Riseborough, raising his eyebrows. ‘How about you, Max? You’d have to agree in principle and run it by your senior leadership team.’

  Riseborough took a while to compose his response, and when he spoke it was clear he did so grudgingly. ‘I have to say, it feels wrong to turn over an incident of this magnitude to someone else. Investigations like this don’t come along too often. However, it would be the most logical thing to do. This entire current case seems to have kicked off in Peterborough, after all.’

  ‘How about the Met?’ Chandler asked. ‘Would you need their agreement?’

  Riseborough shook his head in answer. ‘No. They’re a separate entity, because the Square Mile isn’t one of the thirty-two boroughs. And be glad of it, because there is no way they would be agreeing to pass up a case like this.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be passing it up,’ Bliss corrected him. ‘And certainly don’t put it that way to your top brass. The Super and I were all set to handle it by utilising our own teams, focussing primarily on the contents of the bags found in our own areas. Only, instead of isolating those investigations, we intended to share them. As with any JTFO, however, it required one person to head it up. I’m happy to continue in the role, but I’m open to alternatives if you have suggestions of your own.’

  ‘I’ve run a few JTFOs with the Met, county police services, even the security services and of course counterterrorism, and I’ve had many positive experiences. I’ve yet to lead one, but I’ve never minded being a part of the overall solution. Personally, I’m game if you two are, and I have no objections to Jimmy here taking the reins. Whether senior leadership agrees, I can’t say.’

  ‘As Jimmy suggested when he and I discussed it,’ Conway said, ‘tell them we’ll be sharing all costs and they’ll start thinking about their budgets instead of media appearances.’

  Riseborough chuckled. ‘That will definitely work with my lot.’

  ‘We all want the same thing,’ Chandler said, rising from the table and moving across to stand by one of the open windows. A sweat stain spread between her shoulder blades. ‘And when we nail the bastard, we each get a share of the limelight. And by that I mean our units, not individuals. You’d struggle to find a more camera-shy boss than mine.’ She turned to smile at Bliss, who winked back.

  ‘The best way to approach the top brass is with a feasible plan of action,’ Conway suggested. ‘At this juncture, any mention of this slow slicing behaviour is liable to fry their brains rather than convince them of anything. I’m all for keeping the theory under wraps for the time being. I’m not suggesting I don’t believe it, but our leadership teams are bound to want hard evidence at this stage.’

  Nodding, Bliss said, ‘I agree with you, sir. But unfortunately, we still have so little concrete evidence to go on.’

  Conway put his head back and blew out his frustration in one steady stream of air. ‘And why do you think that is, Jimmy? Is this man taunting us? Is he initiating a chase? Why not just kill and be done with it if murder is his end goal? Why all the drama?’

  ‘I think for him it’s part of the ritual. The method, I mean. Offering us evidence of his horrific acts is something else entirely. It’s his adrenaline rush. Murdering these men in this particular fashion is clearly something he feels passionate about, and there will be a reason for it – in his mind, at least. By leaving the finds, I think he’s letting us know he thinks of himself as better than we are. He’s saying we will never find these men unless he decides otherwise.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s taking chances because he wants to be caught?’ Riseborough asked.

  ‘You mean because he has a deep desire to pay for his crimes?’ It was a decent thought, but Bliss shook his head. He took a gulp of water before continuing. ‘No, I don’t believe that’s the case here. Quite the reverse, in fact: I reckon he does it to show us he’s in control.’

  ‘Which he is,’ Chandler pointed out. She propped herself up on the windowsill, one toe still in touch with the floor. ‘Can you imagine the patience, organisation, and sheer will it must take to keep this up with three different victims?’

  Her words hung in the air between them. Seconds later, the meeting was abruptly interrupted by Riseborough’s ringtone. He checked the caller ID. ‘Sorry, I have to take this.’

  Riseborough spoke for a couple of minutes. From his end of the conversation, it seemed to Bliss as if something had finally swung their way.

  When he was finished with the call, Riseborough placed his phone on the desk and surveyed each of them in turn, wearing a triumphant smile. ‘You wanted evidence,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve just landed a vital piece.’

  ‘Something to do with the hand at Tower Hill, right?’ Bliss said, going with his instincts.

  ‘Oh, yes. The pathologist says four fingers were sliced deep enough to remove their prints. Which means he left us one. Not only untouched, but unblemished.’

  ‘From which your people got a match,’ Bliss whispered, barely able to breathe.

  Riseborough sat back in his chair and folded his arms. His wide grin became one of satisfaction. ‘Yes. We got a match.’

  Thirteen

  Chandler had left her vehicle at the railway station. It was shortly after 9.00pm when they arrived back in the city, and although she lived close by, she insisted on driving Bliss home rather than allow him to take a cab. They continued to discuss the operation, galvanised by the change in fortune and its possible implications. Bliss became so embroiled in the possibilities opening up in front of them that he took no notice of where they were until Chandler’s Focus hit the first speed bump on the curving drive leading into the car park of the Windmill pub in Orton Waterville.

  Bliss groaned as he sunk down into his seat. ‘Not tonight, Pen,’ he said. ‘It’s been a bloody long day and I’ve still got plenty to do before I turn in
.’

  Chandler parked, put on the handbrake and killed the engine. ‘Such as?’

  ‘I want to check the logs to see what came in after we left HQ. I also need to prepare for tomorrow’s early briefing. You know as well as I do the ground we have to cover.’

  ‘So, nothing important. Nothing whose wheels couldn’t be oiled by a pint or two of the black stuff. Nothing you couldn’t put off until morning.’

  Bliss relented with a sigh. ‘If I said you had me at “a pint or two” would it be an awful cliché?’

  ‘It would. But when did the fear of regurgitating an old chestnut ever stop you?’

  The last of the early-evening family punters had fled, leaving serious drinkers to their solitude, by the time Bliss and Chandler walked down towards the pub. As the pair made their way down a path of stone steps, Chandler suggested they sit outside to soak up what little light and heat remained of the day. ‘I’ll get the first round in,’ she said. ‘Find us a seat up on the deck.’

  It was rare for Bliss to do as he was told, but he tended to capitulate whenever a drink was on offer. Alcohol helped him think. His mind was brimming over with the events of the past few days. Most investigations were laboured, a process of routine traces, interviews and eliminations while building a sturdy framework upon which to hang the case. The better investigators learned to spot momentum the way a surfer observes spume and the peak of a wave, giving them the best opportunity to ride it all the way in. Bliss felt as if he was on the shoulder of one now, searching for a way of breaking into the pocket and riding the tube. It was both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. The former because he felt they had taken a giant stride towards their perpetrator, the latter because there was now the overwhelming and occasionally paralysing fear of letting them get away.

  In his early days in the job, Bliss had been too eager and fearless. He had yet to realise that fear was good, something you needed to balance out the adrenaline bursts, a lack of trepidation carrying with it the genuine possibility of hurting both you and your case. These days, he pushed any excitement down as he felt it mounting, allowing a certain calm to settle over him. Emotions swirled around inside his head like frail autumn leaves caught in a warm updraft, but he had long since learned to maintain dominion over them.

  He looked up as the pub door creaked open and Chandler stepped out, carrying his glass of Guinness. He started to smile, but his face quickly became a mask of confusion. His partner stood with a foot jammed against the door to prevent it swinging shut behind her, and his was the only drink she carried. A moment later a second figure appeared in the doorway, and Bliss realised his colleague had deceived him.

  He kept his gaze on Chandler as the two women made their way over to the raised decking. His eyes never left her face, but she never once looked at him. Bliss shifted uneasily in his seat, tension working its way through his muscles. He did not appreciate being played like this, and he had to fight the urge to stand up and march off. By the time the pair arrived at the table, he had no choice but to turn his eyes towards Chandler’s companion.

  ‘Good evening, Emily,’ he said, immediately realising the tone he had used was as formal as the words he had chosen. He forced a smile and softened his gaze. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

  Emily Grant pulled out a chair and sat down, setting her own glass of white wine on the table. Chandler remained standing, and Bliss now fought against acknowledging her at all.

  ‘I’ll leave you two to catch up,’ she said. ‘See you at briefing, boss. Text me if you want a lift in.’

  Bliss muttered something unintelligible. Heat rushed to his chest and neck. It was unforgivable of her to have put him in this awkward situation.

  ‘You’re going to have to let it go,’ Emily said a moment later. ‘I imagine you’re angry with her right now, but you’ll get over it. This is Penny we’re talking about. She’s all yours during working hours, Jimmy. Outside of that, she’s her own woman.’

  ‘Was this her idea or yours?’ Bliss asked.

  ‘A collaboration. Penny and I have been in contact for a while now. I talk, she listens; she talks, I listen. Mostly we talk and listen about you.’

  Realising he was overreacting and behaving like an idiot, Bliss nonetheless felt as if his skull was being crushed beneath the powerful grip of something unseen. A bright flare of pain took off and danced before his eyes. He cursed himself for being so ridiculous, but having first accepted and eventually embraced a life of solitude, this setup felt like a violation of his trust by both women.

  Currently working as a forensic anthropologist, Emily Grant had entered his life as a lecturer running a course he and Chandler had signed up to during his first posting to Peterborough, and for a second time when he’d called her to the scene of what turned out to be a body dumping rather than a murder. All they had at the time were bones, and Bliss had thought Emily’s expertise would be useful. He’d also wanted to see her again. The two had dated for a short while afterwards, before Bliss was uprooted and posted back down to London at the end of the investigation which had led him and his team to expose corruption and murder within the city police force.

  Many years later, Emily had approached him to discover the truth about her husband’s death. In an ugly crime mixed up with an uglier set of circumstances, Bliss uncovered a murder made to look like a suicide. This discovery soothed Emily’s tortured soul, though it did nothing to ease her pain or overcome her grief. His part in her discovery that her husband was anything but what he claimed to be was something which, to this day, troubled Bliss immeasurably.

  Later that same year, left stricken by a tough investigation, his raw emotions exposed by Molly, Bliss had closed the door firmly on two potential relationships. The first was with a local journalist, Sandra Bannister. Their relationship had yet to get off the ground, but the pair had been skirting around a first date. The second was a rekindling of his earlier relationship with Emily, with whom he and Chandler had worked again, albeit briefly. Bliss had found himself drawn to her as strongly as he had been the first time around, yet he had pulled back from the brink and never taken the step necessary to encourage a renewed interest.

  ‘So what exactly do you two find to say in these chats about me?’ he asked now. He took two long swallows of his drink, observing Emily over the rim of his glass. The years had intensified her natural attractiveness. Fine lines around her eyes and mouth accentuated the graceful ageing process she was going through, adding character and depth to a ready smile.

  ‘You ask your questions as if they’re accusations, Jimmy. I realise you feel like we ambushed you, but if both Penny and I thought this was the right thing to do, we can’t both be wrong, surely?’

  Bliss felt trapped by the clever phrasing. To argue now would cast him in a negative role, rather than the person being taken advantage of. ‘That may depend on why we’re both here and she’s buggering off.’ He was aware of Chandler’s Focus bumping back down the drive behind him, but he ignored it. By contrast, Emily smiled broadly and waved.

  ‘We decided you and I needed to talk,’ she said. Another wave, then she picked up her drink to take a sip.

  ‘About?’

  ‘Us.’

  ‘There is no us, Emily.’ Bliss shifted in his chair again; after a moment, he looked directly at her. ‘I don’t mean to sound harsh or cruel, but there just isn’t.’

  To his surprise, she chuckled. ‘You fidget like an anxious schoolboy when you’re uncomfortable. I’ve seen great change in you since we were first together, Jimmy, but you’re still a child at times. A little boy trapped in a man’s body. It’s an endearing quality.’

  ‘Well, it’s an old man’s body now, so maybe I ought to do some growing up.’

  Emily pursed her lips in a way he had always found alluring. ‘Older, shall we say? And don’t give up that childlike side of your nature too easily, Jimmy. Being mature
and responsible is overrated.’

  Bliss took another long swallow from his glass, letting go a deep sigh as he set it down again. ‘I don’t know what we’re doing here, Emily. I don’t know what you expect to achieve.’

  ‘I told you. I want to talk about us. And I don’t need you to tell me there is no us again. Your absence from my life tells me that. What I mean is, I want to see if we can find a way for us to be… well, us again.’

  ‘What makes you think anything has changed?’ he asked.

  ‘Because things do change. They change every day. When we met up again at the find out by Flag Fen, there was an undeniable spark between us. You acknowledged as much yourself at the time, but you killed it stone dead because of your condition. You cut me out of your life because you didn’t want to inflict your illness on me. I’m sure you believed your decision was noble, and in some ways it may have been, but you did so without ever asking how I felt or what I wanted.’

  ‘Because I didn’t want you to be with me out of pity.’

  Shaking her head, Emily said, ‘You can be so damned infuriating at times, Jimmy Bliss. Tell me, why do you alone get to make that decision?’

  He was ready for the question. ‘Because it’s my illness. I have no choice but to live with it. Nobody else needs to.’

  ‘Nobody? Doesn’t Penny have to live with it five, six, sometimes seven days a week? Don’t the rest of your team?’

  ‘When they see me, when I’m working, I’m managing my symptoms as best I can. But there always has to be a period of release, some down time. Time when I sleep or lie still and recuperate. Do you want that to be all you get, Emily? The tired, worn out, frazzled and unstable me?’

  This time it was Emily who was prepared. ‘What I would have liked was you doing me the courtesy of letting me make the decision for myself.’