by Tania Carver
Wright saw the numbers disappear off the screen, the figure flex the bolt cutters.
‘I’m not… not going to be intimidated by the likes of you.’
‘The clock’s ticking.’
The numbers seemed to be disappearing even quicker. Gone and never coming back. He felt his panic increase. If it kept going at the speed it was, he wouldn’t be able to replace it. Not as much as would be lost. Not in this lifetime. The numbers speeded up even more.
‘Fingers,’ he called out. ‘Take… take my fingers…’
He was sure that beneath the mask, the figure smiled. ‘That’s better.’
He moved over to where Denise was sitting, picked up something from the floor. A pair of her expensive silk and lace panties. Crossed back to Wright, stuffed them hard into his mouth.
‘That should stop you screaming.’ He picked up the cutters, positioned them round the little finger of Wright’s right hand. ‘One at a time, I think. Ready? Here we go.’
He brought the blades together.
19
‘W
hat the hell do you think you’re doing? What are you playing at?’
Phil had just returned to the station and been informed of Sperring’s actions. He wasn’t happy. He found Sperring angrily entering the incident room and hauled him into his office, trying not to slam the door, not wanting to give the rest of the team any indication of what was happening, how angry he was.
Sperring turned to Phil, squared up to him, matched anger with anger. ‘My job. What did you think I was doing?’
‘You pull Moses Heap in without consulting me… on what? What charge, what suspicion? What have you got?’
‘Nadish pulled it together. Heap’s got previous. Threatening behaviour with a crossbow. Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘And there’s only one crossbow in Birmingham, is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m saying,’ said Sperring slowly, as if spelling it out for a retarded child, ‘that it was too much of a coincidence to miss. We had to talk to him.’
‘Yeah, I agree. We did have to talk to him. Maybe it is too much of a coincidence. But we didn’t need to pull him into the station to do it, did we? Especially not someone who’s had such a public road to Damascus conversion from gangster to good guy.’
Sperring snorted. ‘If you believe all that bullshit.’
Phil said nothing, scrutinised his junior officer. ‘That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?’ he said, voice dangerously low. ‘Once a villain, always a villain, right?’
Sperring shrugged. ‘Statistically, yeah. That’s right.’
‘And you don’t believe in the benefit of the doubt?’
‘If he can go all Damascan road like you said, let’s stick to biblical stuff and say I’m agnostic on that one.’
‘And now you’ve got Glen Looker involved,’ said Phil. ‘Jesus Christ. Birmingham’s biggest ambulance chaser. You know how many lawsuits he’s brought against us?’
‘Yeah, I do. And you know how many villains are walking around free because of him? Because he’s got them out on some fucked-up bullshit technicality? Just shows. That’s who Heap calls when he’s in trouble. Stick together, that lot.’
Phil’s door opened without a knock. Both men stopped talking, turned. DCI Alison Cotter, Phil’s immediate superior, entered.
‘What the hell is going on?’ she said, once the door had slammed behind her. ‘I’ve got a high-profile community leader talking about claims of police harassment and I’ve got his lawyer, that piece of shit scrote Looker, telling anyone who’ll listen that he’s going to raise a lawsuit against this department.’ She looked between the two men. ‘Would either of you care to explain what’s going on?’
Neither spoke. Eventually Sperring, throwing razor-tipped glances at Phil, opened his mouth.
‘Well —’
‘He’s got previous, ma’am,’ said Phil, before Sperring could say any more. ‘I know he’s whiter than white now, especially to the media, but there are too many similarities in this case. Too many coincidences. Moses Heap seems to know or be associated with the victims and Darren Richards. And he also has a previous conviction for using a crossbow.’
Phil didn’t actually know if it was a conviction or a caution but he had committed himself.
Cotter said nothing, looked once more between the pair of them.
‘He didn’t want to talk in front of his associates,’ said Sperring, ‘and we didn’t think it a good idea if he did. So he gave us no choice but to bring him in for questioning.’
Cotter took a deep breath. Held it. Eventually she nodded, expelled the held air.
‘And the harassment? The brutality?’
‘What d’you think?’ said Phil before Sperring could answer.
‘I know exactly what I think,’ Cotter said. ‘And I think I know exactly what’s happened.’
‘He’s got no case at all for harassment or brutality,’ said Sperring. ‘None whatsoever. And he knows it. He’s just talking out of his arse.’ Sperring stopped, stared at his superior. ‘Ma’am.’
Cotter sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. Okay. Leave it with me. I’ll go and make penitent noises to Looker and let Heap go. And hope all this blows over.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Phil. ‘It’s appreciated.’
Cotter nodded. ‘I don’t suppose he confessed, did he?’
‘Didn’t get that far,’ said Sperring.
‘Pity. Would have made things a lot easier. Don’t worry. We can spin this. A woman and her daughter have been murdered. If Heap wants to make this all about him and be seen as getting in the way of finding the real killer, then we can get very nasty with him. Very nasty.’
‘Thank you,’ said Phil.
Cotter left the room, closing the door behind her. Neither man spoke.
Eventually, Sperring broke the silence.
‘Why’d you do that? Take a bullet for me?’
‘What should I have done?’ asked Phil. ‘Thrown you under the proverbial bus?’
Sperring shrugged. ‘What I expected.’
Phil’s features were impassive as he spoke. ‘We’re a team, Ian. You, me, Nadish, Imani. And the rest. A team. And we back each other up. Even if we don’t agree with what the other one says or does, we back them up. Right?’
Sperring took his time but eventually nodded. ‘Thank you, boss.’ He couldn’t make eye contact with Phil but he held out his hand to shake.
Phil accepted it. Their hands dropped. They stood there in silence once more. Before either could speak, there was a knock at the door.
‘What does she want this time?’ said Sperring.
‘Come in,’ Phil said.
It was Elli, the team’s resident tech expert. She was small, Asian and she took full advantage of the licence to dress down that Phil had instigated. In fact, she had been doing it before he arrived there and knew, in her shy but certain way, that she was too valuable to the team to be told off for it.
Today’s T-shirt, worn with the usual jeans, boots and assortment of heavy-metal jewellery was a grid of primary-coloured TARDISes arranged in a faux-Andy Warhol style. At least Phil understood this one.
‘Boss?’ Her voice was hesitant, fearful of interrupting something, but her eyes spoke of urgency.
‘Yes, Elli. What can I do for you?’
‘He’s… back.’
‘Who?’
‘The caller. The one from last night. He’s on the line now.’
Phil and Sperring both ran from the room.
20
T
he Lawgiver. That was it. That felt right. The Lawgiver. Because that’s what he was. What he did.
He had needed a name. Nemesis had been his first choice. He’d even said that on the phone to the police. But it wasn’t right. Overly dramatic. And not quite representative of his calling.
And then he hit on it. As he had worked his way round to the middle finger of John Wright’s
left hand. When that arrogant banker, a person who thought nothing of bankrupting someone, or a whole company, putting families out on the street if there was profit to be made, was reduced to a screaming, sobbing, pleading, snivelling wretch. He knew what he was. Who he was.
The Lawgiver. That’s who he would be from now on.
He had paused, looked down at his work. It was harder than he had expected, cutting off John Wright’s fingers and thumbs. Even with the heavy-duty bolt cutter he had brought along. He had built up quite a sweat underneath his gas mask. The bone had proved to be surprisingly resilient.
But he had persevered. He had given Wright his word. Justice not only had to be done but had to be seen to be done. And despite the heat and the exertion, he had enjoyed it. No, more than enjoyed. Filled with an exultant joy, a righteous delight. He had felt all-powerful, a god among mortals. It had confirmed in his mind that this was the right thing to be doing. Making a stand. Fighting back. A champion of the oppressed, the underdog.
He grunted, bringing the bolt cutters together for one final assault.
The little finger snapped right off, fell to the floor.
The Lawgiver stood back, took a deep breath.
‘Wow,’ he said, looking at his work. ‘Hungry now.’
The carpet around the chair was sticky and black with blood. Fingers and thumbs were scattered around like grisly ketchup and tomato relish-covered chips. Wright had long since passed out.
The Lawgiver took out a length of rope and tied it round Wright’s wrist. It matched the one he had placed on the other wrist earlier.
‘Don’t want you bleeding to death now, do we? Fair’s fair.’
The Lawgiver checked the laptop, hit a key. The numbers on the screen stopped moving. He peered in closer for a better look.
‘Oh dear,’ he said to the unconscious figure, ‘you don’t seem to have much left, I’m afraid. Harder than I thought it would be. Still, you can always start again, can’t you? That’s what your sort are always telling the rest of us. Get on your bike, and all that. Obviously not in your case. Not now, anyway.’
The Lawgiver began replacing his tools in his bag and saw the woman. Almost did a double take. He had been so involved, absorbed, in his work that he had forgotten she was there. She was curled up in the chair, moaning slightly, eyes tight shut as if she couldn’t see him and what he was doing, he wouldn’t be able to see her and get any more ideas.
He crossed to her, placed a blood-stained, gloved hand on her chin and turned her face towards him, almost tenderly.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘hey, I’m still here.’
Eyes remaining closed, she just whimpered.
In front of the half-naked, terrified woman he felt the stirrings of an erection. Power. Righteous, angry power. How sweet.
‘Really,’ he said, ‘I should kill you too. Not because it would give me any pleasure, of course not. But…’ He sighed. ‘You see, you’re as guilty as him. You’re complicit. In everything. In time, you might have even become as bad as him. And really, I would be doing the world a favour, getting rid of you. But…’ He shrugged. ‘You weren’t part of the deal. And I’m a man of my word.’
He let her face go, stood up. Stared down at her.
‘Take this as a warning. See what happened to him? That’ll be your fate if you don’t mend your ways. You see? I’m here to help you.’
He turned away from her and surveyed the room once more.
‘Oh yes,’ he had said once he had finished, ‘they’re not going to be able to ignore me now.’
He took out his phone. Began dialling.
21
D
inner-time. Joanne Marsh loved dinner-time. Even here it was good. At home she would be eating whatever she wanted. She would buy some stuff and get some stuff off the farm and put it together and cook for her and her dad. And she was good at it, too. She thought so. Her dad never said anything about anything she made, either good or bad, but she liked to do it. Liked to have a man to cook for.
A man. A shiver ran through her. A sad little shiver. Man. She was never going to see her men again, the woman with the big hair had told her. Never. And she was never going to go home again either, that’s what she had said. The shiver intensified and she felt herself starting to cry.
There was a noise at the door.
Joanne quickly wiped her eyes. She didn’t want them to see her like this. She didn’t know who it was going to be but she didn’t want them to see her with her face all red and puffy and sad. The men never liked it when she got like that, they weren’t interested in her then. And she thought it would be the same in here.
The door opened.
‘Here you go, Joanne, dinner.’
She got up and sat at the little desk-cum-table. Looked up. It was the young one, the handsome one. Neat hair and a nice smile. Good body, too; she could see that under his uniform. Oh yes, she’d been looking. She smiled at him. He returned it.
He likes me, she thought. And kept smiling.
He placed the tray on the table in front of her. Mashed potato, something green and a piece of brown meat with gravy on. A carton of yoghurt and a spoon next to it.
‘Why do I have to eat on my own?’ she asked.
‘You know why, Joanne, they’re the rules. Everyone has to eat on their own, in their rooms.’
‘But why?’
He smiled again. She could smell his aftershave, he was so close.
‘Rules are rules. Got to make sure all the cutlery comes back again, don’t we? Don’t worry. You’ll be out again soon.’
‘Right.’ He had said that last time she had asked and she still didn’t understand it.
He turned to go. ‘Hey,’ she said. He turned. ‘Do you want to stay for a while?’
She started to pull her top down and push her titties together. She leaned forward while she did it, the way her men had told her they liked to see her.
‘Come on, Joanne,’ he said, still smiling, but his voice now softer, ‘eat your dinner, eh?’
‘You sure?’ She was still pulling at her top.
‘You’re dancing at the wrong end of the ballroom for me, love.’
He left the room, closing and locking the door behind him.
Joanne left her top alone, felt sad once more. Men always liked her. Always wanted her. She felt good when she had her men, like she was sexy and attractive. And now he’d said something about ballrooms that she didn’t understand but knew it wasn’t good news. She would just have to get used to living without her men. Forever.
She felt the tears start to come again as she picked up her fork and ate.
Later, the dinner plates taken away and the cutlery accounted for, Joanne was allowed out of her room once more. Except she didn’t want to go anywhere. She just sat there on her bed, staring straight ahead.
‘Hey,’ said a voice.
Joanne looked up. A woman was standing at the doorway to her room, looking in. Young with dark hair and glasses. She was smiling at Joanne.
‘Can I come in?’
Joanne was startled. In the short time she had been in the hospital, no one had ever asked to enter her room before. Doctors and staff, the police and that woman with the big hair earlier had just come in. But this woman was asking. That was nice. That was polite.
Joanne nodded and the woman entered.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Joanne.
‘Fiona,’ said the woman, looking round. There wasn’t much to see. The walls and shelves were bare. Joanne had nothing. Fiona sat down on the bed.
‘You fairly new here?’ asked Fiona.
Joanne nodded once more. ‘A few days.’
‘Same with me. Not here long.’
‘How long you staying? They said I might be here for ever.’ Joanne’s face fell as she spoke the words. She tried not to cry.
‘Oh, I’ll not be here long,’ said Fiona. ‘I’ll be out soon.’
‘That’s good.’ Joanne sighed. ‘Wish I could com
e with you.’
Fiona looked at Joanne for what seemed like a long time, her gaze clear and level. ‘I know about you,’ she said eventually. ‘I know why you’re here.’
Joanne, fighting back tears, settled for sulking. ‘They won’t let me see my men.’
Fiona nodded. ‘And that’s a shame. A real shame.’
Joanne looked up. Frowned.
Fiona continued. ‘Your men make you feel good, don’t they? They make you feel young and pretty?’
Joanne was amazed. How did she know? She could barely answer. She managed a mumbled yes.
‘And they make you feel loved. Most of all, they make you feel loved.’
Joanne, stunned, not trusting herself not to cry, said nothing.
‘You give them your body and they make you feel like the most important woman in the world. Is that right?’ She didn’t wait for a reply, kept talking. ‘And that’s why you want to keep seeing them. Why you need to keep seeing them. It isn’t just the sex, although that’s important to you too, it’s the way they make you feel. That really, lovely, gooey good feeling inside.’
She turned to Joanne, waited for a reply. Joanne started to cry.
‘You… you’re right… yes…’ Joanna leaned into Fiona, sobbing on her chest.
‘I know,’ said Fiona, putting her arm round the other woman, ‘I know…’
They sat like that for a while. Even amongst all the sadness she was feeling, Joanne was so happy to have found a friend.
Fiona spoke. Her voice was small, but strong. ‘Joanna, you’re never going to see them again. Ever.’
The crying started again. ‘I know…’
‘They’re going to keep you in here and you’re going to be alone for the rest of your life.’
More sobbing from Joanne, harder this time.
‘You’re never going to feel loved again.’
Joanne’s heart broke. She sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. Eventually, she didn’t know how much time had passed, the tears burned themselves out. She sat there, curled into Fiona.
‘How do you feel?’ asked Fiona quietly.