by James Arklie
Cassie sat forward, elbows on knees. ‘From the way Angie has described him, he could be your killer.’
Kline said, ‘You think he put on a show?’
‘No. I think there’s a possibility it was all a show. His ego playing with you, demonstrating his superiority. The lambs wandering innocently into the wolf’s den without realising the creature in there is a wolf. He will have loved that.’
Angie mused. ‘Little Red Riding Hood.’
Cassie said, ‘Or a place where all things aren’t what they seem.’
Kline blinked. A picture-perfect fantasy cottage. Hansel and Gretel. Gingerbread men. White rabbits.
ALICE in Wonderland.
*
Angie walked back to the office while Kline rushed to Chandlers Ford to see the consultant. He was sent to the toilet where he peed into a plastic bottle. Then watched while the consultant dipped a urinalysis test strip into the pink fluid.
The consultant waved it round over sink, studied it, compared it to a chart and wrote something in Kline’s notes.
He looked up at Kline. ‘I don’t have to tell you there’s blood in there do I?’
Kline smiled. ‘The detective in me has put two and two together.’
The consultant tapped his pen. ‘Right. But don’t make five. There are other suspects. The kidney could be a bit diseased or you may have a urinary tract infection.’
Kline sat patiently while the consultant conducted other tests. He took Kline’s blood pressure, checked his ankles for swelling, shone a light in Kline’s eyes. Eventually, he sat back and spoke as he wrote.
‘Okay Joe, I’ll prescribe antibiotics to address any infection, but otherwise you’re not presenting with any symptoms of rejection. You tell me urine flow is good. No nausea, tiredness or confusion. No swelling.’ He looked up. ‘You are resting?’
Ahhh, Wales and back in one day, thought Kline. ‘Of course.’
He gave Kline a sideways look. ‘You all right otherwise?’
Kline realised it must be showing on his face, in his body language. His heart would break if Jenny rejected him. He spoke his fear out loud.
The consultant put his pen down interlinked his fingers and gazed steadily at Kline.
‘Joe. It’s the other way round. If there is any rejection going on, it is your body and your immune system. It’s not the kidney.’
Kline corrected him. ‘Jenny’s kidney.’
The consultant’s gaze became even more intense. He knew Kline wasn’t absorbing what he was saying. ‘Joe, this kidney is not Jenny. You mustn’t personalise this.’
Kline felt some understanding arrive on his doorstep. He thought he was overcoming his grief. He wanted Jenny with him always and this was his way. It gave him more than the photographs and memories Angie had told him to rely on. The kidney was a part of Jenny living inside him. He was giving her life.
He gave away the turmoil inside him by rubbing at his stubble then at his cropped hair. He felt the hard bristles. First Cassie had seen through his paper-thin façade and now this. He could hide it from Angie, but not from the professionals.
‘You haven’t started grieving yet, Joe. You know that? You haven’t allowed yourself to.’
Kline was intensely aware of it, still inside him, a big, big bubble of pain was just waiting to pop or be popped.
The consultant jotted again. ‘Maybe it’s time for some grief counselling, Joe.’
Kline shook his head. Not yet. That pain was driving him. It would have to wait until ALICE was over. Jenny wouldn’t let him down and he wanted her there when he confronted the bastard who had killed Evie and destroyed their lives.
*
Kline took bacon sandwiches and coffee back to the office for Angie and himself. For Artie the pop-up sandwich van made a roasted butternut squash, avocado and tomato wrap like it was no big deal. They made Kline feel like a cannabilistic heathen.
Artie was appreciative and impressed. ‘Maybe your conversion to a vegetarian has started.’ Kline gave him a look that told him not to push it.
He sat the team down, gave Artie a detailed once over for injuries, saw none and then encouraged a free flow of ideas and chatter.
Over the next hour they assigned tasks, wrote notes on the whiteboard, made the odd call, tried out Artie’s wrap because it looked so good, and agreed that everything they’d found out so far reinforced the fact that they were dealing with an intelligent, violent, egotistical force of evil.
But they couldn’t get any closer than that. Angie tossed the marker pen on her desk with annoyance and slumped into her chair. ‘This is bloody frustrating.’
Artie added. ‘Maybe he’s left. Gone home. The kidney went to Europe, so…’ A stare from Angie silenced him.
What they couldn’t see in any of it was an underlying pattern. They needed a breakthrough and the only way they were going to get one was to create it for themselves through hard work. They had to pick at the stitching of this man’s murders. Pick, pick, pick to open up and pull back the cover.
Then, at one pm, Kline got a call on his mobile from a DS Bayliss who he barely knew. He was working for Pete Simpson.
‘The big man says you should come and see this.’
Angie drove them out to Millbook and an old warehouse in a complex off Redbridge Road. As they parked, any thoughts that their serial killer had left the district for the wine and croissants of France were immediately dispelled.
DS Bayliss led them to an abandoned, two-storey warehouse at the back of the complex. It looked like a prefabricated sixties build. A corner of the roof had collapsed and been patched with a thick, green tarpaulin that flapped lazily in the breeze. Windows had been smashed and some boarded up. There was a small car park in front of the building and mesh fencing marked out the perimeter.
They stopped short of the fence and shielded their eyes from the sun. There was graffiti everywhere, but there was one large piece that stood out. Written with huge letters, in blood red spray paint, across the front of the building was the name ALICE.
Kline looked at Angie. ‘He’s still here.’ There was an edge of excitement in his voice.
She was open-mouthed. ‘Shit. And some.’ This was a blatant message.
In places the paint of the letters had been dragged by gravity and gave the impression of blood running from a wound. It was graphic, grotesque, the mark of their killer.
They followed Bayliss through a gap in the fence. Kline asked if anyone knew how long the graffitti had been there.
Bayliss glanced behind him. ‘I asked opposite and they first saw it yesterday morning. Usual assumption of done by some of the kids who hang round.’
Kline turned and saw the CCTV camera. Bayliss was ahead of him. ‘Already checked and it’s on its way to you. Tall figure in a black hoody, wearing a balaclava under the hood. There’s a ten second clip of him walking in front of the building over there. Good as useless, but you need to see it.’
It wasn’t useless, it told Kline he was braze and his ego was working overtime. That he was ready to tease them with the first tantalising glimpse of himself in the flesh. I’m real and here I am.
Bayliss’ mobile rang. He took a call. ‘I have to go.’
Kline and Angie stared at the letters in silence. She moved round, taking pictures and emailing them to Artie. Kline walked up to the building and tried the doors. They were steel with bars welded across them to prevent rough sleepers taking over. He peered through the windows. Most of the floor space was empty, but spears of sunlight pierced the gloom and on the far side Kline could see work benches of some kind.
Angie joined him. ‘What do you think, boss? Definitely a message. Is he announcing he’s still here?’
Kline agreed. ‘Or, I’m back. Done yesterday morning. Day after I come back on duty. He’s been watching me and waiting.’ Kline took two steps back and let his eyes roam along the letters.
‘This isn’t it though, there will be something more behind this.’
‘It may not look like it, but this used to be an annex of the hospital. Pathology and histology. Shut down in 2002.’
She joined Kline and looked up and along the front of the two-storey building. ‘Yet another thread that leads us to the hospital. I’ll get SOCO up here.’
Kline shook his head. ‘Don’t waste their time. There’s nothing left here. Let’s find the names of people who worked here back in the nineties. See what they can tell us.’
Kline took a last walk along the name, saying each of the women’s names to himself as he passed their letter. He lingered in front of the ‘E’ that represented Evie, a statue on the decaying, potholed tarmac. He imagined the killer smiling, shaking the can and then carefully constructing the letter. One long downstroke. Three sidestrokes. A life summarised.
Kline looked down at his shoes.
And that bastard had stood here.
Right here.
*
Diary entry for DI Joseph Kline
Joe. Joe. Joe. Hey, it’s so great to have you back. Fit and healthy. Ready to take up the fight once again. How’s the kidney? Good, I hope.
But tell me, Joe, how did it feel when I killed her for you? I saw your pain, so I guess it was bad, bad, bad. Horrible even. But I had to step up because you are such a coward in your love. Things had to move on. Sociopaths and psychopaths can’t stand still. One of us had to be strong for the other so we could get on with things.
And I stole one of her kidneys. Wow. Bet you’re wondering what I’ve done with that. Well, I’ll let you know two things, Joe.
First, I’m not a cannibal, so I haven’t eaten it on a thick slice of hot buttered toast. Gross thought, I know.
Secondly, I haven’t sold it. This isn’t about harvesting organs and selling them. It’s profitable, I know, but it’s not for me. That’s what brutal Mafia gangs do. But this is me, Joe. I’m an artist. A special one.
Love, love, love. So full of pleasure, yet so full of pain. I wonder if I’ve destroyed your ability to love again, Joe. When I smiled and flicked the switch that sent Jenny on her way, was it like a red-hot poker to your brain? Cauterizing your emotions. Sealing the loose ends of the blood vessels that were leaking love.
Anyway, Joe, let’s both take a deep breath and then exhale slowly. Let it all out. Prepare ourselves.
The next stage is about to start, Joe.
I’m coming to get what I really want.
*
Chapter Thirteen
Kline and Angie dipped back into the office to catch up with Artie. Kline asked him to request and retrieve CCTV from all the other businesses round the Redbridge Road industrial complex.
‘Chances of us stumbling on an image of him getting into a car with number plates in full view are about zero, but…’
Angie was more positive. ‘He’ll make a mistake soon, boss. They all do.’
Kline silently agreed, because the game he was playing was getting increasingly elaborate.
Artie delivered up the names and addresses of the three parents of ALICE women who still survived. He handed a sheet to Kline. ‘They’re all in their eighties.’
Angie looked over Kline’s shoulder at the first name and sighed. ‘Dementia?’
‘Shame,’ said Kline. ‘She’s a mother and they know their daughters best. Strike her off.’
He read the details of the remaining two. One, a father, lived at home in Salisbury and the other, a mother, in residential care in Andover.
Kline glanced at his watch and raised his eyebrows at Angie. ‘You up for it? Three p.m now. A bit of driving.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s summer and the days are long.’
To Kline that was another way of saying that neither of them had any one to go home to and love and, conversely, no one waiting for them to come home and love them.
Artie was in a better place and couldn’t keep the smile off his face.
‘Okay if I take the evening off?’ Kline and Angie looked at him. He grinned. ‘I have a date.’
Kline blinked and Angie smiled at his discomfort. Too much information.
Kline said, ‘You know as well as I do, Artie, all police officers work a strict nine to five with an hour for lunch, right?’ Kline pressed a hand on Artie’s shoulder, saw Angie’s face and quickly removed it. God, catching serial killers was far more straightforward.
‘One more favour before you leave tonight. Can you chase up the other forces for their SOCO?’ The delay was starting to frustrate Kline.
Somehow, they’d managed to form a little triangle standing in front of the whiteboard. Kline found himself backed up against it.
Artie had a notebook in his hand. ‘It’s on my to-do list already.’ He glanced at Angie, seeking some reassurance by her presence.
‘I don’t want to sound stupid, but how long does DNA survive so you can test it?’
Kline made a face to show he didn’t know and glanced at Angie who shrugged back. She said, ‘It depends on the source and how it’s been kept. Why?’
‘I wonder if the other forces collected and kept any evidence?’
Kline shook his head. ‘What? That they could test? They all told me ‘no’, because there was nothing to keep. The bodies were naked. Personal items on the bodies, rings, bracelets, were returned to family.’
Artie wasn’t letting it go. ‘What about testing the photographs? Any samples from internal examination, fingerprints, that sort of thing. DNA profiling has come on light-years since then.’
‘Fair point. Find out what they’ve got and ask if they’re willing to test it. If not, we’ll do it.’ Although that will be another delay while they send it, thought Kline.
Then Artie pulled up the CCTV clip retrieved from the business premises opposite.
‘I feel I should dim the lights to show you this, boss. It’s spooky.’
What did DS Bayliss say – ‘You need to see it’?
Artie projected it on to a screen beside the white board and they moved to stand by his desk
He said, ‘It’s a jerky, ten-second clip. He comes into view now, walks across the corner of their car park right under the camera. Looks up at it, here. Walks on out of sight.’
Kline was incredulous. Criminals do not go out of their way to be seen on CCTV. ‘He did that deliberately?’
‘Yep. If he’d walked ten yards to the left the camera would have missed him.’
Kline couldn’t believe it. This was a huge escalation. The killer had deliberately exposed himself. He was real. He was right here saying, ‘I’m walking your streets.’
Angie said it. ‘Becoming a cocky little bastard, but that’s good.’
Kline looked at Artie. ‘But what’s spooky about that?’
Artie rewound to where the killer looked up at the camera. ‘This is.’
He zoomed in until all they could see was the hood framing the screen and a black balaclava within. It forced Kline to lean in and peer at the screen. ‘Jesus.’ He stepped forward, right up to the screen.
Angie followed him. ‘Where are his eyes? Where’s his mouth?’
Kline could see the fabric weave of the balaclava, but the eye holes were a deeper black and the slit for the mouth blacker still. He felt that if he put a hand to the face it would disappear through it into a different space-time continuum.
An uncomfortable eeriness crept into the pit of Kline’s gut. He could sense the others were feeling it too. It was like staring into the fathomless face of death itself. Jenny came into his mind. Is this what she had to face as she passed? Was this standing over her?
Kline prayed she had angels and trumpets and Jesus.
He turned back to Artie, his tone serious. ‘That image does not leave this room and does not get mentioned outside this room unless I say so.’ If the image scared Kl
ine, the public would freak.
Artie nodded, wise enough to understand the shock and the headlines that would follow.
Kline took one last look, shook his shoulders as a shiver crept up his spine. He turned to Angie. ‘Let’s go.’
He needed fresh some fresh air and sunlight.
*
Samuel Arthur was the father of Chesney Arthur who was murdered in Keri-Keri, New Zealand. A nice chap who was sitting alone in a chair in his back garden enjoying an early beer in the late afternoon sun. An open book rested on a table by his chair.
They were taken through the house and a large sunroom and then into the garden by his other daughter, Amanda. She disappeared to make a pot of tea.
‘Bit late to be investigating Chesney, isn’t it? Also, the wrong side of the globe.’
Sam might have been bald on top, and he spoke in a pleasant enough tone, but the intelligence in his sharp grey eyes told Kline he was fishing. Kline gave him the spiel about the case never being closed, that a few pieces of new information had come to light and that they were just turning over a few of the rocks again.
‘A few years on and sometimes new evidence becomes apparent.’
Samuel Arthur looked at Kline and gave him a smile to let him know he didn’t believe a word.
‘So, nothing to do with the murder of Audrey Waters or that I’m getting old and you want one last interview?’
Kline gave him an ambivalent smile. ‘Maybe.’
Amanda placed a mug of black tea in front of Kline. Real tea made with tea leaves, Kline noticed. Angie added milk and stirred sugar into hers, sipped it and then opened a folder.
‘Can we show you both some pictures?’
Kline saw a flicker of pain in the grey eyes. Shit, he thought, will mine last this long?
Samuel asked. ‘Of who, Chesney?’
‘No. These are of other women. We just want to know if you recognise any of them. Maybe as friends of Chesney’s or work colleagues?’