Isolation

by Jay Nadal

  He hit the floor and rattled off one hundred press-ups without stopping. Each rep slow and steady, his rhythm designed to activate and engage the key muscle groups in his chest. Each time he lowered, he let out a slow and steady breath before inhaling. Veins in his temple popped and throbbed under pressure. Beads of sweat snaked their way down his arms.

  Discipline was key. His fitness, vital for survival. He moved over to the chin up bar positioned in the doorway. Gripping the bar, he started his one hundred pull-ups. Within thirty minutes, he’d also completed one hundred ab crunches. The workout punished him; the pain exhilarated him.

  The achievement soothed him.

  His room was spotless. His clothes were neatly organised, and pristinely ironed. His bed immaculately made. Attention to detail was critical. He could see his own reflection in his polished shoes. He ate at set times. With three minutes remaining before it reached two p.m., he sat with a spoon in one hand, the plate of food in the other.

  Having eaten and cleaned away, he sat on the chair he had positioned in the middle of the room and stared at the wall in front of him. All the information he had gathered, maps, pictures and press articles were pinned to the wall. His eyes danced from one piece of information to another, each piece tantalising him, fuelling that desire that burnt so strong inside.

  The speed at which things were moving surprised him, since it was moving faster than he had expected. Whether it was deliberate, or sheer coincidence appeared irrelevant to him. He had waited far too long for this. He would continue as he had planned.

  20

  Alfie and Rosie displayed all the natural characteristics of sibling rivalry. One moment they were the best of buddies, the next they despised and loathed each other, each battling to drop the other in it as they moaned to their parents.

  Being twins didn’t help. Rosie was three minutes older than her brother, and leveraged that fact when she wanted to belittle him. She was tough, joyful and daddy’s little girl, despite being fourteen. Alfie, had his mother’s characteristics, being sensitive, kind-hearted, and quiet.

  Her job meant that her time away from home varied based on daily demands. She would love to have had a job where she’d be home by five-thirty in the evening. She missed being able to sit around the table as a family enjoying an evening meal. But her hours were determined by business needs and staffing levels.

  Once again she came in late, kicking off her shoes inside the doorway and padding into the kitchen. The aromas of a lasagne filled the kitchen, stirring her stomach and making her mouth water. “Something smells good. Are the kids still up?”

  Craig didn’t look up from the washing answering, “No, they went to bed ages ago. They waited for you again, but I didn’t want them eating too late, otherwise they’d never have their showers. I didn’t want them staying up just because you’re late.”

  Amy sighed. She sensed the disappointment and frustration in her husband’s voice. He was often left to sort out the kids most evenings, and it had been a point of contention between them for several months. Sharing the responsibility wasn’t the issue. However, what pissed him off was the lack of family time most evenings. Most nights one of the kids would ask, “What time is Mum back?”

  “Sorry about that, love. You’re doing an amazing job.” She flicked on the kettle, desperate for a strong tea. Amy didn’t want to take him for granted. They both had full-time jobs.

  Craig worked locally which meant he was back before her. Many of the household chores fell on his shoulders. He rarely moaned. She loved his energy and vitality to keep home life bubbling along. He threw passion into everything he did. As a husband she couldn’t fault him, he loved spending time with the kids, busying himself in the kitchen, dashing around with the Hoover, and going out on bike rides with the kids.

  She was envious of his zest for life. He specialised in offering media advertising services to small businesses. It meant lots of travelling and lengthy meetings, but he always made a point of being there for their kids every evening.

  “How was your day?” he asked.

  She shrugged as she drained the last of her tea. “Same as any other. Too many people vying for my time, and not enough hours in the day. I didn’t have time to sit down and eat my lunch. I had to have a quick bite of my sandwich here and there. It was stale by the time I finished it.”

  Craig offered her a sympathetic look as he dropped his head to one side.

  She stepped over to where he stood and wrapped her arms around him. Her eyes were soft and smiling. He caressed the side of her face with the back of his hand.

  “You know I love you? I’m sorry we don’t spend much time together.” She laid her head on his shoulder, breathing in his masculinity, his familiar smell. She sighed. “Something needs to change. We need to spend more time together as a family. I love what I do, but I’m away from home all day. The people that we care for are important, but my family has to come first.”

  Craig warmed inside. He’d heard this before, but nothing seemed to change. He so wished that they could spend more time together as a family. “Perhaps we need to do something about it instead of always talking about it?”

  She pinched his waist. “Oi, cheeky. I hear what you’re saying, and I know I’ve said it before. I see life and death all day long, and sometimes it makes me think that life’s too short for regrets. Why should we wait until the kids are older before we enjoy us?”

  “I agree. The thought of pushing you along the Brighton seafront in a wheelchair doesn’t excite me.”

  The doorbell rang, and she playfully punched him in the chest before helping herself to some cold lasagne from the oven, whilst Craig went to answer the door.

  Amy sneaked a mouthful of lasagne straight from the dish before placing more on her plate. “Mmm, this is delicious, babe. My compliments to the chef,” she shouted from the kitchen. Her attention turned to the muffled loud noises coming from the front door. “Who is it?” she shouted.

  She dropped her fork as Craig returned to the kitchen. Her fingers curled into a fist, nails digging into her palms. The thumping of her heart against her chest overwhelmed her. She was unaware of her rapid breathing, but felt the oxygen flooding in and out. Her eyes looked at Craig and the person behind him. Fear tortured her guts, churning her stomach in tense cramps. Dread engulfed her consciousness, knocking all other thoughts aside.

  Her attention turned to the man standing behind Craig, and the glistening steel blade pressed hard to Craig’s neck.

  21

  Cara’s safety played on Scott’s mind the whole of yesterday afternoon. He needed a breakthrough. He’d spent the evening going through the documents he’d printed off on McCormick and his organisation. The longer he read, the deeper the pit of concern churning in his stomach grew. McCormick carried an aura of invincibility and surrounded himself with protection. He’d been able to carry on his businesses for years.

  In reality, McCormick should have been facing a lengthy sentence at Her Majesty’s pleasure. So many cases had collapsed, and numerous investigations had disappeared into the ether. He’d read about cases that had collapsed in Manchester, with rumours abounding that several police officers were on the take.

  One internal report highlighted that over forty-five thousand pounds had been spent on mounting a surveillance operation involving dozens of officers. It was part of an investigation into a two million pounds cocaine distribution ring. Relying on informants and evidence from surveillance, the police had raided a warehouse at the hub of the investigation. When officers executed the warrant, McCormick’s operation had already cleared out.

  Following detailed examinations, the police had uncovered an underground network of tunnels that had allowed McCormick’s men to move lock, stock and barrel out from beneath their eyes. What had infuriated senior officers was that it was one of those rare occasions where McCormick had been at the location.

  Fearful of Cara’s safety, he had asked her to stay the night. It would still b
e a few weeks before she moved in, so he was relieved to have her by his side. But how safe is she? And more to the point, how safe are the both of us?

  Sleep had evaded him for another night, so he’d hauled himself in at five-thirty a.m. The absent low hum of voices and phones ringing, afforded Scott the tranquillity he needed as he continued to pore over the printouts he’d accumulated.

  The connection between the Ashmans and McCormick eluded him. No matter how hard he stared at his notepad, nothing bounced back at him. All wild manner of theories and motives popped into his head. Considering the affair between Janet and Ainscough, had jealousy been the motive? Then his mind wandered to the new possibility that perhaps Janet had had a relationship with McCormick, and she was a loose end he needed to tie up.

  Quinn had mentioned that Ashman and McCormick went back many years. Had Janet been involved with him in the past? Was it a historical thing? Scott leant back in his chair and sighed. If he was hoping for clarity, it would not come from looking at his notepad.

  The team gathered for a short briefing, offering updates on their current follow-ups.

  Having seen the formal reports from Matt and Cara, Scott updated the team. Nothing new there. Scott resigned himself to assuming that the case would not be forensics led. Janet had died from a heart attack brought on by shock, which emphasised the savage brutality of the attack.

  He turned towards the whiteboard, and the pictures of Janet Ashman tied to a chair, along with the post-mortem images. Various names of those involved in some shape or form had been added. They appeared to be a random list of names with some tenuous links and even weaker motives between them.

  “We’ve been going through Ashman’s past newspaper, magazine and online articles. We have uncovered nothing of value, Guv, not even on his blog,” Helen chipped in.

  Scott had done some of that research himself but hoped a second set of eyes would uncover something he had missed. “Following my visit with McCormick, he still needs to remain on our radar, but unless we find anything of value, we need to stay out of his way.”

  Scott didn’t elaborate despite the odd look of curiosity from the team. He moved on before anyone asked why which would require him to lie. “Any joy on the photo ID from Angula Baskara?”

  “Yes, Guv. She’s helped a profiler create a sketch. It’s not great. We have to consider the fact she was thirty yards away, perhaps further, and looking down at him from an elevated position. I doubt she could identify him from a line.”

  Scott agreed. From such distance, it would be hard to identify certain key characteristics of a person’s face. The shape of their eyes, the size and length of their nose and the shape of their mouth would be hard to define. Finer details would prove impossible to define, such as whether they had a round face or angular features, or if they had stubble.

  “Perhaps we should reconsider whether or not this involves nothing more than a random killing by a psychopath new to our patch?” Mike suggested. “We’ve got no witnesses, no evidence, no links, and there isn’t a similar MO on any database anywhere.”

  Raj agreed. “That’s my gut feeling, too. There is nothing in Janet’s background to suggest that she was in danger. Everyone we’ve spoken to hasn’t got a bad word to say about her. The only fly in the ointment, is her affair with Ainscough. And from what you’re saying, he has a fruitful and colourful sex life, but perhaps not the propensity to murder.”

  Scott folded his arms and stared at the floor as he paced around the room. Raj was right, but perhaps this was never about Janet. Scott pondered whether Janet was nothing more than a simple, expendable pawn to distract them?

  “Let’s have another chat with Ainscough. Even though Janet was the victim, she may not have been the intended target.”

  They fell silent, keen to hear more.

  “Ainscough remains a suspect, and the motive, jealousy. That gives us a reason to keep piling on the pressure. My bet is still on Ashman. This has to do with him. Whatever or whoever he has been involved with, has led to Janet Ashman’s death. In my mind, this isn’t, and never has been about Janet Ashman. Perhaps we’ve been looking at this from the wrong angle.”

  Scott could see the penny drop. Abby nodded as she tuned into his wavelength.

  “So this could be something to do with Ashman’s past. Something he’s covered?”

  “Exactly. Which makes me believe it’s something to do with Ashman and McCormick, because they have a history.”

  “Is Ashman in a fit state to talk?” Helen asked.

  Scott shook his head. “I doubt it. But we can’t wait for him to get better. We don’t know how long that will be, and whether it will happen at all.”

  One of the desk phones rang interrupting Scott’s final thoughts. Helen pushed up from her chair and raced to the nearest desk to grab the extension. She waved her arm to signal silence as she took the call.

  “Guv, the desk sergeant just called through. We’ve got another body. It appears to be similar a MO.”

  22

  The team carved their way through Brighton traffic in two job cars. Their sirens pierced the air, startling pedestrians.

  Scott received ongoing updates as they made their way towards the crime scene. Uniformed officers had secured the scene, and forensics were in attendance. Initial reports suggested a grim scene awaited them. A large crowd had gathered in the street, with PCSOs being drafted in to keep them away.

  Scott instructed uniform on the ground to stay well back from the actual crime scene to avoid any contamination. His first concern was the opportunity to extract vital forensic evidence. If this was the work of the same perpetrator, then they needed forensic evidence for a breakthrough.

  As they made their way through the outer cordon tape, the news that a survivor remained only reinforced expectations that this was connected to the first case. They were waved through by a PCSO who lifted the tape to allow them to enter.

  Scott, Mike and Abby kitted up in white paper suits, foot covers and gloves. He instructed Raj and Helen to conduct initial enquiries with specific interest on CCTV in the locality.

  “Who did that?” Scott asked, pointing towards the pile of puke close to the front door.

  “Constable Edwards, Sir,” replied the uniformed officer standing guard. “He was first on the scene. He ran straight back out and did that.”

  “Fucking idiot. He’s just contaminated the crime scene.”

  A sense of foreboding gripped Scott as he prepared himself for the horror awaiting him. The same uniformed officer at the door had informed them that the survivor, Amy Harp, lived at the property. She had sustained facial injuries and extreme shock. They could not glean anything from her. As she slipped in and out of consciousness, an ambulance and paramedic had treated her at the scene before taking her to hospital.

  He called through to the ops room and organised for a uniformed presence at the hospital as a precautionary measure. He gave strict instructions that no one other than medical staff were to talk to or approach the victim.

  The dining room had been cordoned off, with SOCO in the midst of their investigations. As he peered in the doorway, the true magnitude of the heinous act swept over him, draping every cell in his body with repulsion. It took a moment for his mind to comprehend the scene. Amy Harp had been found tied to a chair, beaten to a pulp, but had survived…or been spared.

  “Who found her?”

  “I’ve just spoken to uniform, Guv. They have a cleaner who comes in once a week. Unlucky for her, she popped in to pick up her wages. She noticed that both cars were outside, but no one answered the door. When she peered through the letter box, she saw the lights were on in the hallway and beyond in the kitchen.” Abby glanced into the dining room before continuing. “That raised her suspicions. When she thought she heard a slight moan, she let herself in and found this,” Abby said.

  “Where is she now?”

  “She’s down the road being treated for shock. A little Chinese woman who doesn’t
speak much English. She’s babbling in the back of the wagon. I’ve already contacted the station to get an interpreter.”

  Scott nodded. Desperate thoughts plagued him when Cara decided to join them. She had witnessed many scenes, but this occasion struck her speechless. The three of them stood there in silence fixed by one vision, the brutal slaying of a family. The smell of death lingered in the air. Once a happy, vibrant family home filled with laughter and love, it had become the final resting place for its occupants. A quiet and sombre atmosphere filled the house, as if the soul had been sucked from its walls and foundation, leaving nothing more than a shell without identity.

  The butchered bodies sat like ghoulish mannequins. But it was that smell that pierced the soul…one that could only come from those recently slaughtered, their blood thickened but not yet dried on their waxy skins.

  Scott grimaced, his teeth clenched so tight that his jaws ached. There was a familiarity to the scene. Four chairs arranged in a circle in the middle of the room. One chair remained empty, the one Amy Harp had occupied. The other three held the rest of her family, including Craig her husband, and her twins Alfie and Rosie.

  Scott and Abby watched as Cara and the forensic team went about their work. They meticulously photographed and mapped out the scene. As they started from the outermost boundary of the room and worked their way towards the centre, they documented the location of each item. Cara inspected all three victims, shining her small torch across their bodies looking for signs of wounds other than the ones easily visible.

  “Looks like they sustained the same injuries, a large cut to the abdomen, and their eyes have been removed,” said Cara.

  In the back of his mind, Scott prayed that Matt’s team might find the smallest shred of forensic evidence. A footprint, the indentation of a ring or heavy instrument, a hair fibre, or a liquid sample, anything would be better than nothing.