by James Arklie
Kline screwed up his eyes, trying to see passed the slashes and the gaping wounds that had opened up Bleakley’s body and let the life rush out. ‘I thought you said he’d been…’
Dai Barber interrupted. ‘He may look fairly normal, but the killer collected up the odd hand and arm, even an ear, and, how can I say it, re-assembled him?’ He pointed at the screen. ‘Actual cause of death was the final blow to the skull. Split it open. I’m told that takes some real force.’ He looked straight at Kline.
‘This was not a woman.’
Angie stepped back, took a deep breath behind her mask. ‘Any flowers? Lilies?’
Dai Barber frowned at the specificity of an unusual question. He looked round the room. ‘None that I can see.’
Kline glanced at Angie. She’d taken this to exactly where his mind had gone. He looked back at the image because his interest had been taken by an arm. It had been completely hacked off, but it had been replaced at a totally unnatural angle on the left shoulder. It was right next to his ear and it pointed above his head. To anyone else it would look like clumsy, random, hurried. But Kline breathed the word silently to himself. Alignment.
He looked back to the outline on the floor and followed the direction of the arm to a low sideboard on which was a record player. Kline smiled grimly to himself. The same method of communication, he thought. Nothing to obtuse this time. Just to be sure Kline got the message.
He stepped round Dai Barber and walked across the room. The others arrived at his side just as he lifted the tinted, perspex lid. On the turntable was a single.
It had the orange-red Polydor label.
The artist was the late, great, Jimi Hendrix.
And the song? One of his best.
‘Hey Joe.’
*
Kline was feeling the intensity of a Dai Barber stare. The Welsh lilt had become more pronounced. ‘Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that I do not have to go looking for a murderer in the local community?’ Kline nodded.
Barber went on in a sing-song voice that expressed his annoyance. ‘That you will find him for me.’
Dai Barber was back on his car bonnet. Kline and Angie stood in front of him. Kline gave him an apologetic nod. ‘Correct.’
‘And the person who murdered Alan Bleakley is a serial killer known to you.’
Kline crossed his arms and glanced at Angie. ‘We don’t know his identity, but we believe he’s been active for at least twenty-five years.’
Dai Barber spread his hands. ‘So, what’s he doing here? Even serial killers don’t travel to a random corner of Wales to murder a random man.’ He jerked a thumb at the cottage. ‘And leave a message for you? That’s pretty specific.’
Kline heard the question in Barber’s voice. What are you not telling me? Kline didn’t want to go there. This wasn’t the moment to share the scattering of random pieces of information they had. He’d just sound stupid. He wondered if Dai Barber had checked them out and been told to expect a couple of misfits who were being ushered out of the force.
Kline tucked his hands in his pockets. ‘Dai, I’ll tell my boss to speak to your boss. Get them to set up a joint investigation. I can guarantee to you, this man is long gone. You will never see him up here again. He came with one specific purpose.’
‘What, to hack Alan Bleakley to death? You sure that’s it?’
Kline wasn’t sure but went out on a limb. ‘Positive.’
They talked for five minutes more. Kline tried to leave Dai Barber with the positive feeling that he could be the one to find the clue that would help them nail the ALICE murderer. Kline sensed that Dai Barber knew he would be told to park the case and see what Kline came up with.
It was nearly ten pm when they left. They decided to take on the challenge of the long drive back to Southampton. After an hour, they stopped at a service station for sandwiches and coffee and Kline took over the driving.
Angie popped a plastic wrapper and handed him a tuna and mayonnaise. ‘So, boss, Bleakley. What do you think?’
Kline had no doubts. ‘Definitely murdered by our killer. The big questions are, did he already know where Bleakley lived, or did he follow us yesterday?’ Kline took a bite and balanced the sandwich on one knee. ‘And, of course, why did he want Bleakley dead?’
‘Why so viciously, boss? I’ve never seen violence like that. I didn’t think it was possible for a person to do that.’
Kline ate some more of his sandwich ignoring the bloody image in his head. ‘A serious escalation in his anger. It’s been caused by something.’ He finished his sandwich. ‘You think he might have followed us? All the way from Southampton?’
Angie dismissed it. ‘What and waited in this sleepy little town for a day and night before killing Bleakley? And, I mean, does everyone carry a machete in the boot of their car…?’
Kline accepted the second half of his sandwich. ‘What about GPS, tracking our mobiles, a bug on this car….?
‘Seriously, boss?’
Kline nodded. ‘Yes, seriously.’
Kline was way behind the curve on technology, but that didn’t mean their killer was a dinosaur. He would talk to the tekkies to see how they checked that out.
It took them to the most interesting option. He voiced the thought. ‘And if our killer already knew where Bleakley lived..?’
Angie pulled the ring on a can of coke. ‘They’ve been working together all this time. Killer comes here to silence Bleakley. Just in case he talks.’
Kline wasn’t sure. ‘The first strike was just inside the door. Bleakley opened it and was immediately attacked and forced back. If they’d killed together since the eighties, I would expect there to be an initial welcome.’
Angie took them to where they both knew this was going. Her voice held an edge of excitement. ‘This is all about Bryony James. She’s the link between them.’
Kline pulled into a small service station so they could change seats again. ‘It has to be. Bleakley loved her, beat her and as good as murdered her. Our killer has left Bryony’s picture on all the ALICE victims.’ He turned off the engine.
‘He either knew, or knew of, Bleakley back then. He knew what Bleakley did, and he’s decided that now is the time to take his revenge.’
Kline got out and walked round the front of the car. Angie shifted across, started the engine, revved it gently, but they didn’t move. She was thinking out loud.
‘Our killer was in love with, infatuated with, Bryony James. He committed the ALICE murders because of her. Because of his love for her. That’s what the photographs are about. I did this for her.’
‘Or as revenge for her death.’
She frowned. ‘Revenge? But that would mean the ALICE women all had something to do with her death as well?’
Kline just shrugged. ‘We need to look for links between the ALICE women and both Bleakley and Bryony James.’
Angie flicked the headlights to full-beam and they pulled out of the service station in silence.
Kline settled into the darkness of the drive with his thoughts. Once upon a time he’d wondered what it would be like to be loved by a psychopath. Now he knew.
Smothering and intense.
Timeless and deadly.
They will never let you go.
*
Diary entry for DI Joseph Kline.
Hey Joe?
Did you like that touch? Jimi Hendrix?
Sorry about the mess, but it was long overdue. He was not a nice man, Joe. Not like me and you. He thought he loved, but he didn’t. If you love someone, you don’t beat them, do you? You hold them, hug them, caress them, not take your fists to them. Every woman he kissed, he also beat up. What kind of record is that?
It’s made me think about the timeless nature of love, Joe. Love never ends, does it? Take your beautiful Jenny. You will love her until the day you die. Beyond, maybe, if there is a beyond.
And what about your first girlfriend, that first time you fell in love. What age? Thirt
een? Fourteen? When those hormones were singing through your veins with uncontrolled joy. Blinding your sight with love. Giving you a hard on every time you stood near her.
Did you like my little cameo on CCTV? My message on the wall?
It’s all about to happen, Joe. Soon, soon, soon.
And after we’re all done, I’m hoping you’ll be able to find a little bit of love in your heart for me, Joe. Because, after all, we are the same.
Men who have controlled our women. Smothered them with intense love.
Men who have loved and lost.
Men who still cling on to the fickle, gossamer-thin skirts of a love that has passed by.
Go on, Joe. Admit it.
You will never let her go.
You kept a dead woman alive.
You’re a psychopath too.
Chapter Fifteen
Day Fifty-Three
Kline managed about five hours sleep without waking, but as soon as he did that was it, his brain was buzzing and shooting wild thoughts in every direction. He needed to get them written down.
He got up at seven am, pissed urine full of blood, ignored it, showered and sent a text to Angie to say that he would make his own way in. He dared to include his coffee order. Ten minutes later, entering the office, he was confronted with mayhem.
During the night one of the junior detectives had been found murdered in his apartment in Totton, just across the Redbridge Causeway. He was a police officer, part of the club, so officers were being called in and resources pulled from other cases and from routine administration.
Kline kept his eyes to the floor as he crossed the large office space to his desk. He sent a text to Angie and Artie to do the same. Colleague or not, they had enough to think about. When Kline had been given this opportunity by Dave Barker, Kline’s real standing had been made clear from the allocated desks. They were tucked away in a shitty little corner. It was now an oasis of calm.
Kline spent his time alone to try and organise some thoughts on the whiteboard. He started by making lists, the way Jenny did when she had too many chores in her day. He’d been on investigations before where it was all too easy to multi-task yourself to an inefficient standstill. The result was rushed tasks often left incomplete and missed crucial clues. Stay slow and steady. Focus and be boring.
He gave himself the tasks of following up with the cruise line companies, getting updates from Pete Simpson on Audrey Waters and also from Dai Barber on Alan Bleakley. Forensic analysis had revealed nothing on Jenny’s death. Pete had been apologetic as he’d handed the file to Kline. The case was open, but it was closed. It was now part of Kline’s remit to find the ALICE murderer. And that was just fine with him.
Kline sensed that Alan Bleakley could be crucial to the case. He tasked Angie with getting deep into the life and times of Bleakley while he was a doctor at Southampton General. While there, he crossed paths with their killer, perhaps even crossed swords, or worse, they may have been friends.
He also wanted Angie chasing down more on Bryony James and Deborah Wilcox. Their parents had died before them and that was hampering the ability to quickly gain knowledge and insight into their lives. Angie would have to track, trace and interview friends.
Artie had to follow up the DNA analysis requests. Kline was also desperate for the tiniest glint of any commonality linking the ALICE women.
Kline dropped into his chair and leaned back. His mind started its spinning. The ALICE murderer was alive, well and here in the Southampton area. The reason why and for how long they had no idea. Dave Barker said it, he may never have left.
Worryingly, he was still willing and able to kill violently and with impunity. Audrey Waters and Alan Bleakley were the gory evidence of that. While Bryony James, Alan Bleakley and the killer were all linked in some subtle way. Add in Sam Little and Deborah Wilcox. Where did they fit into this, if at all?
So many names, thought Kline. So many potential linkages.
What had driven their killer to travel round the globe to kill the ALICE women? All that way, all those trips, over a five-year period. Why turn off Jenny’s life-support? Was that to get at Kline or was there a message there that Kline was missing?
When the killer had taken Evie’s life, a part of Jenny had died. Kline now realised that a part of him had died as well. For those reasons alone, he wanted this man and to get even. It was a deep, murmuring anger useful to drive him on, but it mustn’t cloud his judgement.
Kline’s desk phone rang and he ignored it. Then his mobile, he looked, it was the boss, so Kline ignored it again. He wasn’t getting sucked into this other investigation. He needed to focus solely on this one. If this train wasn’t going to move from the station of its own accord, then he was going to have to drag it.
Angie appeared in the doorway with their coffee. The cartons were like urns and reminded Kline of the last item for his morning list. He had to find time to go and collect Jenny’s ashes. With her back in his arms, he had to decide if he was going to follow her wishes and scatter her onto the Solent, or be selfish, and keep her for himself.
He chuckled silently. I mean, love. You’ll get your hair wet if I throw you in there.
*
Angie deposited coffee and pastries on Kline’s desk and looked at the empty chair beside him. ‘Where’s the boy wonder?’
She was right, Artie was always the first in. Kline shrugged. ‘New boyfriend, late night?’
Angie took her coffee and mobile to the whiteboard and called him. They spoke for a few seconds and then she looked at something on her screen. Kline saw her face screw into a concerned frown.
She spoke again, quickly hung up, looked at Kline. ‘Just popping out for a while, boss. I’ll go and check he’s all right.’
She was lying, but Kline let it go. If something needed sorting out of his sight and hearing, that was fine.
And it was fine, until Angie called him thirty minutes later. ‘You need to come to his apartment, boss.’
‘Why?’
‘Boss. Just come.’ Kline heard the concern in her voice.
‘Is he okay?’
‘Soon as you can.’
Angie let him in, her eyes full of something Kline couldn’t read. ‘Straight ahead.’
Kline stepped passed her, down a short hallway and pulled up after one step into the small lounge. Artie was stretched out on a sofa. He’d taken a real hammering. Someone had taken a boot to his face. His nose had gone again, both eyes were bruised and bloodshot. There were plasters over both eyebrows where the skin had split open. He was holding a bag of peas against his ribs. There was a packet of painkillers on the table and a roll of plasters.
Kline’s anger screamed through the low ceiling of the small apartment like a sonic boom. ‘Enough. Name. Now.’
This was a crime and Kline intended to crush the bastard that had done it. He glanced at Artie’s knuckles. They were raw and bruised. The kid had fight, but it was now Kline’s fight. Artie’s bloodshot eyes stared into his defiantly, then, for the first time, his determination wavered.
Artie looked at Angie for help. She was kneeling beside him, holding a towel full of ice on his other ribs. Kline was thinking an ambulance was in order. Angie spoke, searching for words. ‘It’s complicated, boss.’
Kline’s anger was sharp. ‘It doesn’t look too complicated to me.’ Kline realised there was something he wasn’t being told.
Angie tipped her head to the television across the room. SkyNews had been paused on a mugshot of a smiling, thirty-something male face. He had dark hair and moody calculating eyes that stared at out at Kline. He read the caption below, looked back at Artie. His face was a mask of panic.
‘It wasn’t me. I swear to God, it wasn’t me.’
Kline’s gut turned as he pulled all his worst thoughts together. ‘Jesus Christ, Artie.’
The beater and batterer of his gay colleague was the detective who’d been murdered in the early hours.
And the smashed up angry
ball of defiance in front of him was now the main suspect.
*
‘Bag his hands.’ Kline looked at a bloodied tee-shirt on the floor, looked at Artie. ‘Then strip. I want all of your clothes.’
Angie opened her mouth, Kline shut it for her with a look. Gut told him Artie couldn’t have, wouldn’t have, committed murder. But they had to follow due process. In the end it would help him. Kline read him his rights and Artie started to cry.
Kline made him strip naked in front of them, which didn’t help his dignity, but Kline was leaving nothing to chance, interpretation and the bias of others. He called it in and asked for a SOCO team.
Next Kline called Dave Barker who exploded. ‘You are fucking kidding me?’
Kline couldn’t blame him. He was seeing the headlines. ‘Policeman murders policeman in gay…’ Kline stopped himself thinking it. He knew he was on the line here, as well, because he should have stepped in earlier.
He went back to Artie who, with the help of Angie, had managed to pull on fresh jeans and get a white tee-shirt over his head. Kline looked him in the eye, sighed and put a sympathetic arm round his shoulder and carefully hugged him. ‘Twenty-four hours of shit is coming your way, okay. Just tell it all as it happened.’ Kline got a nod.
‘And before the cavalry arrive, tell us now. What did you do and where were you last night?’
Artie told them; it was simple, his innocence would come down to timings and, Kline hoped, CCTV on the streets. On his way home from the office Artie had picked up a takeaway. His boyfriend had visited for the evening and about ten pm Artie had gone out for more wine.
Smiling boy on the TV, must have used his police powers to find out where Artie lived and ambushed him. Artie had arrived home to an appalled boyfriend but refused to call the police or an ambulance or go to the hospital.