Harrison wiped a dew drop from the end of his nose, feeling the cold nibbling at his ears.
'Thank you all for coming, I know the snow is lovely to look at, but it makes getting around hard work, so once again my thanks for making the effort.'
Someone in the crowd started to clap, when no one joined in the singular clapping stopped and someone laughed, followed by a few random coughs.
'Christmas time means rejoicing and after we turn on the tree lights, there will be carols and refreshment, including mince pies, kindly provided free of charge by The Rolling Pin Bakery. As you all know; this year the Lord Mayor's Charity appeal is to help the homeless in Wigan. While we are all warm and well-fed, spare a thought for the many homeless who struggle to find food, struggle to keep warm and struggle to find shelter during this bitter winter. So, while the school children entertain us with their energetic singing of traditional Christmas carols, accompanied by the Salvation Army, Santa's helpers will be coming around with the collection buckets. Please dig deep and give generously.'
This time no one clapped as the mayor scanned the faces before him.
Clearing his throat, he spread his arms wide. 'So, without further ado I would like to wish you all a merry Christmas and all the best for the New Year!' He swished his arms down and suddenly the tree was lit by a multitude of sparkling lights that pulsated red, green, white and blue.
Harrison's face lit up, his mouth opening in awe when the sound of the brass band and children singing ''Away in a manger'' filled the town square. The crowd began to wander about, people making their way over to the large tables, manned by the WI, that were handing out free mince pies and drinks. As the crowd thinned out, his father moved forwards until they were standing ten feet from the tree that seemed alive, pulsating with glittering colours, those colours reflecting off the buildings and people, turning it into a kaleidoscopic spectacle.
The music grew in volume and Harrison winced slightly as the big drum pounded out, the sound hitting him squarely in the chest, making him flinch at the onslaught.
He moved closer to his father's side in an effort to block out the sound, but the driving beat seemed to find him there. The lights on the tree died for a moment and then came to life again, flashing on and off as if to the beat of the drum. Harrison concentrated on the lights, his toes now felt like ice, his ears and nose burning with the cold. When his father moved to one side to talk to a man in a yellow hi-vis jacket, Harrison stepped closer to the tree, suddenly mesmerised by the light show. Green, blue, white then red, danced before his eyes, the smell of cooking onions and hot dogs drifted through the falling snow.
When the lights went out, Harrison took two more steps forwards, the scent of the pine now mingling with the fast food.
The lights came on again, spiralling over his face, his breath billowing out as the band continued to play.
When the lights ceased once more, he tilted his head, a look of confusion forming on his young, rosy-cheeked face. The boy took two more shuffling steps forwards, his eyes locked on the lower branches of the tree.
When the red lights flashed on, Harrison Carter screamed, his hands flying upwards, dislodging the snow from the shoulders of his padded jacket. The sound of terror blasted out, and for a few seconds it masked the thump of the drum. Taking a deep shuddering breath, he screamed again, and the brass band suddenly drifted to a stuttering halt.
When he felt the hand on his shoulder he jerked in terror.
'Harrison, what's with all the screaming?' his father asked in dismay.
When his son lifted a hand, Tom Carter followed the pointing finger, his face bathed with red light, his eyes springing wide as he saw the head lodged deep between two branches, ginger hair hung lank over the forehead, the eyes were open and shot through milk-white, the right side of the face was a mass of red and grey gore.
Then suddenly the air was ripped by several screams as the onlookers spotted the grisly remains, children cried, and adults gasped at the horrific sight.
'Get your burgers and hot dogs here!' the man in the catering van shouted over the cacophony of screams.
Harrison started to cry before turning and burying his face in his father's jacket, people scattered into the night, while the mayor stood looking at the tree in horror, the gold chain around his neck shimmering as the lights on the tree continued to shine.
9
By the time Lasser arrived at the crime scene, the area had been cordoned off. Uniformed officers had managed to shepherd the crowd down a narrow ginnel that led back to the town centre. He could see them outside the John Bull chop house, chattering with excitement, videoing anything that moved, filling the cold air with cigarette smoke and wild guesses.
Angling towards the library, he spotted Bannister standing in front of the tree, its lights still flashing, dressed in a thick padded RAB jacket, walking boots on his feet, the snow whitening his hair.
Doc Shannon was lodged in the branches, wearing a red coat that made him look like Santa Claus getting ready to leave something nice under the tree. To his left, squad cars were parked up in a row, the blue lights splashing over the white ground before hitting the glass-fronted library in a dizzying swirl of blue.
Bannister turned as he approached. 'Where the hell have you been?' he demanded.
'Red Rock was blocked with snow, so I had to take the long way around,' he explained.
Bannister grunted in acknowledgment though he looked anything but happy.
Then Shannon emerged from the foliage of the skyscraper fir tree, the severed head clasped between his latex-gloved hands, his face set in forbidding lines.
'Jesus,' Lasser muttered as the doc carefully placed the head into the grey evidence box at his feet.
Lasser and Bannister moved forwards until all three men stood looking down into the box, like the three kings in some horrific nightmare, the manger replaced by a plastic box, the severed head taking the place of the infant Jesus.
'Well, it's a bloke that's for sure,' Lasser stated as he saw the ginger stubble on the bone-white cheeks.
'No shit, Sherlock,' the DCI growled.
Ignoring the jibe, Lasser looked up at the building, he counted six sets of security cameras all trained on the surrounding area.
'Is anyone checking the CCTV?' he asked.
'Odette's sorting it, whoever placed the head in the tree must be on camera. So, with any luck it should give us something to go on,' Bannister speculated.
Peeling off the gloves, Shannon put them in a clear evidence bag before bending and placing them in the box. 'So much for goodwill to all men,' he said with a sad sigh.
'Any idea on the time of death?' the DCI asked.
Stroking his beard, the doctor shrugged. 'Difficult to say at the moment, especially with the weather being so cold.'
'Hazard a guess,' Bannister demanded.
'Well, there didn't seem to be any blood on the branches and none on the ground, but…'
'It's been snowing so there could have been blood, you fool,' the DCI said, before angrily thrusting his hands into his pockets.
'I was just going to say that, before you jumped in like the prize tool you are,' Shannon replied, his eyes growing hard.
Lasser looked from one to the other, the tension crackling between them colder than the frosty air.
'Do we know how the head was removed?' Lasser asked as Bannister's face continued to flood with anger.
Shannon shook his head. 'I'll know more when I get the remains back to the lab.'
'Looks as if someone clubbed him big time,' Lasser commented as he looked down at the damage done to the side of the severed head.
Shannon nodded sagely. 'Looks that way.'
Bannister fumed. 'Listen to you two, stating the bloody obvious. I want to know exactly what happened to the poor sod and I want to know right now.'
'So, you want me to get the head back out of the box and have the rubberneckers taking pictures with their phones?' Shannon enquired sarcasti
cally.
Bannister scowled and turned to look at the crowd at the front of the pub, phone lights flashed in the darkness.
'Gruesome bastards,' the DCI complained before turning back to the doctor. 'Right, get a move on and let me know what you find.'
'Try saying ''please'',' Shannon demanded.
Bannister narrowed his eyes and then sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. 'Please,' he mumbled.
Shannon grunted in satisfaction before picking up the container and walking towards the ambulance parked on the side road.
'Why the fuck would someone do a bastard trick like this?'
Lasser jiggled the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. 'Maximum impact?' he suggested.
Bannister sniffed the freezing air, his nostrils flared. 'This place was filled with families milling about and listening to ''Away in a Manger'' and then they find a sodding head in the branches of the tree.'
'Like I said, ''maximum impact'',' Lasser repeated.
'But why? It's one thing to kill a man but normally the killer tries to hide the fact not advertise it,' Bannister's voice rose slightly.
Lasser kept his mouth shut, knowing perfectly well that the DCI had long since joined the dots and was simply thinking aloud as he always did. Asking questions and demanding answers to keep those he worked with on their toes.
'Well, Sergeant, come on, I'm waiting?'
'Whoever did this has no interest in keeping quiet about it, they wanted us to find the head and they wanted to cause distress to the general public as well.'
'Which means?' Bannister demanded.
'We have a nutter on our hands who will probably be looking for his next victim as we speak.'
Bannister snapped a nod. 'Question is, was the sick fuck in the crowd waiting for the head to be found?'
They turned and looked towards the John Bull, the ginnel was still crammed with people, corralled in front of the pub, a line of officers in hi-vis jackets keeping them back.
'I wonder where the rest of the body is?' Lasser pondered.
'Christ knows, I just hope the bastard hasn't left limbs scattered around town for the public to find.'
Lasser sighed, so much for a quiet Christmas, he thought, as a siren blasted out into the frosty air.
10
The man sat on the sofa, his long legs stretched out towards the log fire that crackled with heat. The house was quiet, the Christmas tree in the corner of the room sparkled with pinpricks of muted light, the presents – wrapped in multi-coloured sparkling paper – had been placed under the low-hanging branches, waiting for the big day.
The television was on low as he waited for the news to start. Leaning forwards, he tapped at the laptop on the coffee table, his eyes scanning the screen checking local news feeds.
With a scowl, he stood up and grabbed his cigarettes from the mantelpiece, striding across the room he yanked the front door open, before lighting up and angrily blowing the smoke out into the world of white.
Placing the head into the tree had been easier than he had imagined, of course he had been fully aware of the cameras around the town centre, so he had made sure that his hood had been pulled up as he walked towards the library, carrier bag in hand. It had been almost midnight as he wedged the head between two branches, thankfully the place had been deserted. No doubt people had stayed at home due to the heavy snow, or those who had ventured out to the pubs and clubs had headed off early, desperate to grab a cab to avoid standing on the pavement in the freezing conditions. Seconds later, he had angled away, his head bowed, his boots trailing through the snow.
It had taken him twenty minutes to walk back to the van, he had dumped the carrier bag that had contained the head into a roadside bin and then driven home, taking his time in the treacherous conditions, the wipers on to shift the drifting snow from the windscreen.
By the time he climbed into the single bed, it had gone one o'clock and he had lain there, eyes open as he stared into the darkness, reliving the moment the spade slammed into the side of the victim's head. When he had eventually drifted off to sleep, the voice had been whispering words of encouragement into his thrumming brain.
As usual, the alarm had gone off at six and the man had climbed from the bed before heading to the shower. The rest of the day had started in the usual manner, feeding the birds, then heading out to work.
At lunchtime he had sat in the van overlooking miles of moorland glowing white in the sun's weak, winter rays. Eating his sandwich, he had listened to the radio, half expecting to hear breaking news that the head had been found. The hours had ticked by and the tension inside had increased.
After tea he had sat and helped Sam do his homework before putting the lad to bed, while his wife had, as usual, headed out to her sister's house for a few hours.
Taking another drag on the cigarette, he wondered why there had been no news plastered over the television and internet. The frustration made the anger flare inside as he imagined the head remaining undiscovered over the Christmas period. He pictured the festive season coming to an end, the council workers would turn up to remove the tree. Shredding the branches before taking it to the refuse tip, the head pulped forever, mashed into the earth, undiscovered.
It started to snow again and then the German shepherd eased past him and trotted outside, black fur collecting the flakes as the animal cocked its leg against the wheel of the snow-clad van.
He watched as the dog sniffed the ground, tail swishing back and forth as he followed a particular scent. Taking a final pull on the cigarette, he flicked it into the undergrowth, his eyes darkening with anger as he realised that his plans could yet prove fruitless. The thought turned his hands into fists, the fury juddering inside.
He gave a sharp whistle and immediately the dog came back, entering the house the man took a final look at the snow before closing the door.
He walked straight back into the lounge and headed over to the TV as the German shepherd curled on the rug in front of the fire.
When he saw the breaking news ribbon appear along the bottom of the screen the man felt the thrill hum through his body, the tension evaporating in an instant.
''Severed head discovered in Wigan – the grisly discovery was made at the annual Lord Mayor's Christmas tree lighting ceremony. Chaos ensued.''
The man's face was split by a huge grin, rubbing his hands together in glee he took a deep shuddering breath and closed his eyes, loving every second of the emotion that flooded through his body, leaving him feeling giddy with excitement.
Turning, he moved back to the sofa and sat down, lifting the laptop onto his knees he went in search of the latest news, the smile on his face now a permanent fixture.
11
Lasser turned the dial, the heater blowing hard in an effort to keep the cold at bay.
Odette sat beside him in the passenger seat, her hands folded in her lap.
'So, what do you reckon?' Lasser asked as he pulled out the ever-present cigarettes and lit up, before sliding the window down a fraction.
'Well, the cameras picked the guy up, no problem, around six feet tall, thickset, though of course he could have been wearing lots of clothing in this weather or to throw us off the scent, he was carrying a plastic bag and we think the head was inside.'
Lasser nodded in understanding as smoke trailed through the gap, the snowflakes settling on the windscreen. 'What's the timeframe?'
'Just before midnight yesterday, he appears from the right, you see him stop for a moment, no doubt checking the coast was clear. Then he walked straight to the tree, hood up, he placed the head in the tree and then simply walked away, heading towards the John Bull. The cameras lost him near the park, but they never got a glimpse of his face.'
'The guy knew he was being watched?'
'Looks that way,' Odette agreed.
'What about the carrier bag?'
'He thrust it into his coat pocket, so I assume he took it with him, though if he did dispose of it then it wasn't caught on the
cameras.'
Lasser sighed before flicking ash through the gap. 'Did you have a nice time in the Lakes?' he asked unexpectedly.
Odette blinked at the sudden change in the conversation. 'I did,' she paused, 'in fact, Craig came down with me for Christmas.'
When he turned and smiled, she almost gasped in relief.
'He's one lucky guy,' he replied.
She felt the heat in her cheeks build, heat that had nothing to do with the warm air that flowed through the vents. 'How are things with you and Jackie?'
The smile on his face grew wider. 'Things are great.'
'You really like her, don't you?'
Lasser found himself nodding. 'Yeah, yeah I do.'
'Well listen, if we get the chance then perhaps we can all go out for a meal?'
'That would be great, I…'
Lasser's door was suddenly yanked open and Bannister stood there like a yeti, his head and shoulders dusted with snow.
'By Christ, I'm out here battling the elements while you sit there smoking and gassing!'
Lasser shivered as the warm air vanished from the inside of the car. 'We were discussing the case.'
'Oh yes, and what conspiracy theories have you come up with this time?' Bannister asked as he held out his right hand. 'Light us a cig, I can't feel my bloody fingers.'
'Why don't you get in the back?' Odette asked, leaning forwards.
Bannister scowled but closed Lasser's door with a thump and climbed into the rear of the car.
Sparking up another cigarette, Lasser reached back and handed it over.
Bannister took it with a shaking hand and had a hurried pull. 'What did you find on the CCTV?'
By the time Odette had explained about cameras trailing the man, how he had left the head in the tree and vanished near the park, Bannister had smoked the cigarette, his face carved with anger.
'Do we know if anyone has been reported as missing lately?' he asked.
Twisting in his seat, Lasser peered over the headrest. 'I've asked Sally Wright to look into it and she contacted me ten minutes ago, nothing concrete so far.'
Desolate Hearts Page 4