Perfect Day

by Kris Lillyman

  After that they got happily drunk and Roper barely remembered climbing into bed next to Emma when they finally arrived home in the early hours of the morning.

  However, when his alarm clock went off at 6.30am and he got dressed for his first day as the acting senior in charge of Cambridge C.I.D., he was certainly aware of the severe banging in his head.

  ***

  Finch’s body was discovered ten days after he died by a representative of the Duke, whose land the cottage stood on. He had apparently gone there at his employer’s behest to relate some information about the upcoming Boxing Day Shoot, an event which the Duke hosted annually.

  However, the poor man had found the half-burned cottage and Finch’s charred remains instead.

  It was now Christmas Eve and Roper had been temporarily in charge for just over a week. Fortunately things had been fairly quiet, although there were still no leads on the two murdered skinheads. Furthermore, with no witnesses, no murder weapon and no trace of the man calling himself, John ‘Robbo’ Robinson, who was believed to have been with them, Coyle was starting to think that the case would remain unsolved.

  Now came the news of another murder; the fourth in Cambridge since Roper had been with the constabulary.

  The scene was gruesome to say the least; the burned corpse with a brass poker impaled through his neck; evidence of blood all over the kitchen along with ropes and a gag which had obviously been used to restrain someone. Additionally, there was Nazi and White Power paraphernalia hanging on the walls, a cabinet full of high-powered weapons and lethal gin traps scattered around the property’s boundary - one with the meaty remains of human flesh still caught in its jagged teeth.

  Roper wandered through the fire-ravaged debris of the derelict cottage wondering what horror had occurred there, kicking through the rubble for any clue that might lead him to some answers.

  After sometime, his eyes fell upon a gold picture frame buried amongst the soot; its glass cracked and blackened, the photo within singed. Roper picked the frame up, removed the back and slid out the photograph it contained; its edges scorched and tattered. Yet he could still clearly make out the small army unit the snapshot depicted as they stood posing in front of a tank in some war-torn country. What is more, he could easily identify the three men standing in the foreground. One, he recognised as Roger Finch, the owner of the cottage he was in, whose mugshot his Detective Constable had just shown him. Whereas the other two he had last seen dead in an alleyway in Cambridge just a couple of months before, because they were William ‘Psycho Billy’ Merton and Dean ‘Deano’ McCullough.

  ***

  With The Station running only a skeleton staff over the festive period and the crime lab closed until New Year, Roper managed to get Christmas Day and Boxing Day off. Even though there had been a murder, The Station just did not have the financial resources necessary to encourage officers to work over the Christmas period as the overtime alone would be exorbitant.

  As such, the investigation was put on hold until the day after Boxing Day.

  This worked well enough for Roper who was happy to spend a couple of days at home with his wife - particularly as Emma seemed much cheerier than she had in months. She had even instigated sex four times in the last few days, so Roper was certainly not complaining. It was if a fog had lifted and the sunshine had emerged once more.

  Roper had no way of knowing her good mood was due to their imminent return to London, nor that in a couple of weeks he was being transferred to The Met. Two rather important details that neither his wife nor his superiors had, as yet, bothered to tell him.

  In fact he had no idea why his wife was in such good humour but he definitely appreciated the change in her and hoped it was because she had at last settled down to life in Cambridge.

  Unfortunately he could not have been more wrong.

  Nonetheless, during his enforced down time, Roper could not help but think about the case. Three men murdered, all of whom were in the same army unit, all with neo-Nazi tendencies and all who, at one time or another, had worked as mercenaries.

  There was something else, too, as Coyle studied their mugshots. Something he knew he should be seeing - another connection which he could not quite put his finger on. However he was sure it would come eventually.

  Upon returning to work and with the investigation underway once more, Roper’s team of officers canvassed all the villages in the vicinity of Pemberton Woods but turned up only one lead.

  It was from the landlord of the Red Lion in Pemberton itself. A couple of weeks earlier, maybe a day or two before Finch’s estimated time of death, the publican remembered a stranger asking how to find the cottage in the woods.

  Sadly, the stranger had been wearing a motorcycle crash helmet at the time so the landlord did not get a good look at his face. But he remembered he had a slight accent; East European, he thought, possibly Polish. However, his description otherwise was sketchy - average height, average build - although he could not really be sure of anything.

  He was certain of the accent though and that was at least something.

  As New Year came and went, the Crime Lab re-opened and quickly came up with some interesting findings.

  D.N.A analysis proved that all three men were present at the murder of Claudette Sekibo. Indeed, their D.N.A. matched that which was found all over the crime scene, proving beyond doubt that they had all participated in her rape.

  Furthermore, it was discovered that a knife wound in Finch’s seared armpit was consistent with the wounds found on Deano McCullough a couple of months earlier, with a high probability that they had been inflicted by the same 7.5” blade.

  So Roper was left with four murders, with all victim’s having been present in that glade by The Cam almost two years before. Yet, in Roper’s mind, Claudette was the only real victim. The other three were seemingly just getting what they deserved.

  The question was, who was killing them?

  Coyle certainly had his suspicions and although the pub landlord had put the Eastern European motorcyclist in the frame, he did not believe him to be responsible. At least not directly.

  In fact, all Roper’s finely honed instincts told him that the man who had killed Merton, McCullough and Finch was none other than Sam Beresford.

  Indeed, had Roper been in Sam’s position, having been forced to watch as a gang of men raped and butchered his girlfriend, then he, too, would have wanted to kill them.

  But that did not make it legal.

  However, upon further investigation, this theory did not hold water.

  Evidence showed that Sam Beresford had been in America since being discharged from hospital, with no record anywhere of him ever leaving his home in New Hampshire. Furthermore, Sam Beresford had not left the United States or entered the U.K. either by plane or ship; his name absent from any passenger lists which might prove otherwise.

  Yet, no matter what the facts suggested, Coyle’s gut told him that Sam was the killer. Indeed, with the resources now available to him, it would be easy to bribe someone to doctor a flight manifest or purchase a new identity with which to travel under.

  Also, as Coyle repeatedly studied the photographs of the three dead men; his instincts were still telling him he was missing something which would validate his suspicions about Sam. But it just would not come.

  ***

  By the second week of January, Roper’s transfer papers came through and Emma duly completed her bargain with Graham Smart.

  After telling her husband she was visiting her mother, she actually checked into a very plush, extremely exclusive hotel in Cambridge City Centre and spent the night with his boss.

  As she suspected it would be, the Chief Superintendent’s performance was rather underwhelming. They had sex three times in the space of twelve hours, although the sex itself, including foreplay, amounted to a mere fraction of that time. Neverthel
ess, in the intervening periods, whilst he built up his strength for another effort, Emma made use of the hotel’s five star facilities. She had a sauna, a massage and a facial, all of which satisfied her much more than Smart’s pathetic efforts in bed. However, she had upheld her end of the bargain and Roper would be none the wiser.

  Smart was anxious to see her again and eager to make it a regular arrangement. He even suggested that she should leave Roper for him - offering to set her up in a nice little flat where he could visit her once or twice a week.

  Yet Emma merely laughed and told him he was a deluded fool for thinking she would even entertain leaving her husband for a pathetic old lech like him. They had made a deal and had each been given what they wanted so, with her obligation to him now fulfilled, their fling was over and he would never see her again.

  As Emma flounced out of the hotel room at 9am the following morning with a self-satisfied grin on her pretty face, Smart did, indeed, feel like a fool. She was returning to London with her young, handsome husband, who was free to have her whenever he pleased, whilst he, Smart, would be left pining in Cambridge with his dull, portly wife; never to see the woman he was utterly infatuated by ever again.

  Christ how he hated Roper Coyle.

  Smart’s seething jealousy notwithstanding, he was nothing if not a man of his word, so he finally called Roper into his office soon after the illicit rendezvous with Emma and revealed the news that he would shortly be leaving.

  Barely able to bring himself to even look at Coyle, he unceremoniously told him that he was being transferred back to The Met. The excuse being that with four unsolved murders still on the books and a new Detective Inspector on the way, a move back to London was probably the best thing for him - the new D.I. no doubt wanting to put together his own team.

  As he received this rather unexpected blow, Roper was somewhat taken aback by the Chief Superintendent’s obvious resentment of him. Having previously only spoken to the man on three prior occasions - each time very briefly - it seemed a little uncalled for. Yet the animosity was unmistakable nonetheless. So when Roper asked for the transfer to be reconsidered, claiming he was finally getting somewhere with both investigations now he knew they were linked, it fell on deaf ears.

  Indeed, no matter what he said it was to no avail and before the week was done, Roper had cleared out his desk and said goodbye to his colleagues.

  Two days later, he was sitting at the dining table of his father’s old home in North London, trying to come to terms with the sudden change in his circumstances. Emma, on the other hand, seemed remarkably chipper about things. In fact, the transfer did not seem to trouble her anywhere near as much as Roper thought it might.

  Nevertheless, he could still not stop thinking about the three murdered men as he spread their photographs out on the table once more; Merton and McCullough pictured naked from the waist up as they lay dead on the mortician’s table and an image of Finch that the police held on file.

  He studied the photos as he had so many times before, looking for that one thing which he felt sure was eluding him; searching for the clue his subconscious was telling him he was missing.

  And then he saw it.

  It hit him like a bolt. Suddenly it was blindingly obvious as he realised what Sam Beresford meant as he lay delirious in his hospital bed nearly two years earlier - the words which Grainy had been so convinced were just gibberish but in Roper’s view had always been pertinent to the case.

  Hare, bulldog, finch.

  Each of those words, he now knew, described a man.

  More to the point, they referred specifically to the men who had killed Claudette, which was obviously why Beresford kept repeating the words over and over again as doctors fought to save his life.

  For Roper it was now so clear to see. What is more, it further supported his suspicions about Sam, the only witness to the crime, and the very specific things he had said before slipping into a coma.

  Hare - referring to Merton’s harelip; the most identifiable thing about him. Bulldog - referring to McCullough’s tattoo; clearly visible on his bare arm and unique to him alone. Then Finch - the man killed in Pemberton Woods whose name Sam may have heard before being left for dead in the glade.

  There were at least three others too as evidence had proven it. Indeed, D.N.A. belonging to a total of six men showed them to have raped Claudette both vaginally and anally, with copious traces of semen having also been found in her hair, on her face, breasts, buttocks and inner thighs.

  Roper was satisfied that those he now knew to be Merton, McCullough and Finch were accounted for. As for the others, their identities were still a mystery.

  Nevertheless, Roper immediately picked up the phone to call his former Chief Superintendent, hoping that discovering the significance of ‘hare, bulldog, finch’ might somehow help with the case. But Graham Smart refused to speak with him. Coyle phoned time and again but each time had no luck; Smart’s secretary repeatedly making excuses as to why he was unavailable.

  Finally Roper spoke with his former Detective Constable and told him everything. In turn, the young policeman duly logged the information and promised to pass it onto the new D.I. once he arrived.

  After that, Coyle could do no more. The investigation into the Cambridge murders was now out of his hands and with his new position in The Met starting on Monday, he would have other cases demanding his attention.

  However, Roper would never forget, or cease to be effected by the sight of Claudette Sekibo hanging dead from that tree and, for that reason alone, suspected he might not yet be quite done with the investigation surrounding it.

  For the immediate future though, it was time to move on.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Marseille, France

  The man who called himself James Locke was enjoying some much needed down time. Since finalising his mission in New Orleans he had taken on assignments in Tangier, Buenos Aires and Washington D.C., some of which had taken months to complete. So now he considered himself deserving of a well-earned rest. Although the fact that it also happened to be Christmas meant very little to him.

  Nevertheless, he loved Marseille because of its contrasting mix of European and North African cultures. Together they made for a steamy melting pot packed full of the diverse characters who seemed naturally drawn to the city.

  There was also a very seedy side to Marseille which Locke particularly enjoyed. Indeed, away from the bars and restaurants of the Old Port, in the city’s thriving underground, amidst the souk-like markets and side street cafés, the threat of violence was never too far away, and it was this that Locke liked most. The sense of having to remain alert, to be constantly wary of attack and the possibility of having to test himself at any moment - situations which the average person would go out of their way to avoid - but which Locke positively thrived on.

  In Marseille he could immerse himself in his surroundings, partake of whatever took his fancy; drugs, sex, violence, it did not matter, as everything was readily available and waiting for him in abundance.

  Which was somewhat problematic for someone with Locke’s tastes.

  Indeed, he had now been there nearly three weeks and Locke felt himself being increasingly seduced by its dark delights.

  So much so that he feared if he did not leave soon he might never be able to tear himself away from its intoxicating allure.

  The temptation of staying was too dangerous to even contemplate, as proved to him by his actions of the night before.

  Simply for amusement, he had picked up a young Arab boy, maybe late teens or early twenties, and accompanied him to a dimly lit side street close to the cathedral.

  The olive-skinned boy had taken him there for sex; the early Christmas present of a tall, muscular foreigner with steely blue eyes, just too tempting to turn down. Yet before the young Arab had even unzipped his fly, Locke had slit his throat, un
able to resist the delicious thrill it promised. He then stood over him and watched him bleed to death; the boy’s dark eyes bulging as he choked and gargled, gasping for a breath that would not come.

  As his victim’s blood pooled thickly over the litter strewn ground, Locke was careful not to get any on his boots as he stared transfixed; the fascination of witnessing someone die, of snuffing out their very existence, never ceasing to enthral him.

  When, at last, the boy was still; his eyes gazing glassily up into the moonlit sky, Locke wiped his blade clean on the young Arab’s dark, curly hair and wandered back along the harbour in search of a release, hugely exhilarated from the rush of the kill.

  Soon he found himself a dockside whore; fat and ugly, with teeth like a camel, but it mattered little as he fucked her up against a wall; the act itself hard, violent and efficient so as to expend the high levels of adrenaline surging through his body.

  Afterwards he headed back to town where he got drunk alone in a bar before climbing into bed in his rented apartment close to the Abbaye Saint-Victor.

  Next morning he awoke early as was his custom, even though he had only slept for five hours. His head ached and his throat was dry, so he washed and dressed quickly and went in search of coffee.

  As he walked, he thought on what he had done to the young Arab boy; knowing it would surely happen again and again if he was to stay in the city, which, although extremely tempting, was a distraction he could simply not afford.

  Nevertheless, enjoying the warm morning sun on his face, he soon found himself out on the quayside amongst the fishmongers and the handful of tourists who had arisen early to watch the boats bringing in their catch.

  He took a seat at a table in a small pavement café and ordered himself a strong black coffee. As he waited for it to be delivered, he scanned the various faces around him.

  A man, obviously British due to his choice of newspaper, was reading a two-day-old edition of The Sun. Locke thought very little of it at first as the waiter set his coffee down in front of him, but then he noticed the headline, clearly visible on the paper’s front page: