by G H Mockford
‘We’re doing okay,’ she said. ‘We’ll be there soon.’
‘Answer the question. Please.’
Bernie took a deep breath and said, ‘I was checking her pupillary response.’
‘And?’
She looked at me long and hard. ‘The response wasn’t as good as I’d like.’
‘So?’
Bernie picked up the pen and tapped it against the clipboard, thinking. ‘Along with the bleeding from the ears, it almost certainly means Sarah has a skull fracture.’
‘And?’ I was beginning to sound like one of my old records, stuck, repeating itself over and over.
‘It means there could be a chance of brain injury.’
Forty-Nine
The tram was still quite busy even though the rush hour had long gone, but the man in the hooded top was happy to stand. He needed to keep an eye out, after all. Stay alert. He felt confident he had made a clean get away, but he knew he couldn’t be too careful.
After almost colliding with the group of lads, he’d run back up the street. He was sure that while Alex Freeman had seen him, he hadn’t recognized him. What were the fucking odds of not only bumping into that stuck up bastard, but that he was going to the same place he was?
In hindsight, he supposed it wasn’t that much of a surprise. The two clearly had the hots for each other, and it was only a matter of time before Freeman plucked up the courage to ask her out. It was just a shame it hadn’t taken him just a little bit longer.
As soon as he had turned the corner, he pulled off the mask and shoved it under his hoodie the way he had designed it to. He didn’t want to attract too much attention, after all. He should have realized the design was too distinctive. He had kept his head down, but he was reasonably confident there weren’t many CCTV cameras around there and the ones that were, were privately owned.
He began to have a nagging feeling that something was wrong, but right now he had bigger problems to worry about. Cutting through Fletcher Gate car park he had crossed the road, skipped in front of the tram and received the annoying ding ding from the driver as a warning. Fat load of good, that was, the tram needed something much more aggressive. He was amazed that they didn't kill more people.
Down an alley, past Waterstones, and he was in the Market Square. The usual bunch of freaks and weirdoes were hanging around the lion statues which guarded the Council House. At least the dropouts were useful when he wanted drugs and other such commodities.
Arriving at the Royal Centre, he waited for the next tram to Hucknall.
How the hell had it all gone so wrong? It should have been simple. He had one plan. Get in using the keys, attack, rape and then murder the bitch. Silence her before she could tell anyone what she knew. He’d been so careful, but Sarah Alec had to stick her nose in and he wasn’t going to let her ruin his plans. Someone had to pay for what had happened, and now she was just collateral damage. He cursed himself. He should have stuck to the True Mission and not got side tracked. He shouldn’t have let his feelings get involved.
Still, she was dead now, so, mission accomplished, and he could always chalk it up as a successful training mission. His only regret was that both he and the knife didn’t have the fun they had been expecting. Both were left wanting, needing.
He reached down and felt the dagger, which he had strapped tightly around his leg again. It had cost him a fortune and was his friend and companion on his adventures. He knew it would never let him down like a human would. All his life he’d been let down by others. By women. By his mother. But now he was taking his destiny into his own hands. Now he had the power, and it was time to show them all.
He’d been out and about wearing the dagger almost every day since it had arrived. He had even worn it to work once or twice. Security there was lax despite the key cards they had in the new reception area.
He finished his musings and looked up to catch a single mum with a double buggy looking at him. He could tell she was one of them. It was easy, so long as you knew where to look. The lack of a ring was an obvious clue, but not always reliable in this modern age where people didn’t believe in the sanctity of marriage and family.
No, the real giveaway were the tired eyes, the worn out pram, the Morrisons carrier bag, the fact the stupid bitch was out and about with two toddlers at eight in the evening. But, the real clincher? She was well dressed and turned out in the latest slag clothing. They often seemed to look after themselves, but not their child. Selfish bitches.
The woman looked away from him, and he was pleased. It was good to instil fear in others. There was no way she could possibly know what he was carrying or what he was thinking. Maybe he hadn’t been thinking, but talking to himself, and she'd heard. He had a tendency to do that, especially if he was stressed. She didn’t look scared, so he decided it was probably idle curiosity, wondering who was shrouded by the big, black hood. It would serve her, and her two brats right, if he had to dispose of them. The bitch shouldn’t be so fucking nosy.
Looking back up at the mother, he blew her a kiss and wondered whether to mess with her head and pull up his trouser leg to expose the knife. He decided against it. He’d had enough attention for one day.
He‘d made sure he’d collected the knife on the way out of the flat. He wasn’t daft though thanks to the struggle there was a distinct chance he’d left DNA and other forensic evidence in the flat. At least the bitch didn’t get the chance to scratch him or she’d have his skin under her fingernails. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter. He knew he wasn’t on any sort of database.
Her ability to use self-defence came as a complete surprise. He didn’t have a clue she could do that. It made him feel angry, not because he didn’t know and that the lack of information had caused him to fail, but because even though he had one of the most dangerous knives in the world, she still wasn’t afraid of him. And, let’s face it, that was a huge part of the fun - the fear he created in others.
Doris and the prostitute had been afraid.
At least the blade had tasted Sarah’s blood, even if it was just from the palms. He had to admit that it had made a beautiful pattern on the wall. It was a bit like that man who threw paint and called it art. Before he had always thought it was a load of old bollocks, but now he was beginning to see its appeal. His wall art – he liked the sound of that - was his violent, bloody homage to the artist. He would have to try it again some time, and soon, but he’d plan it out and have all the tools and equipment he’d need. Maybe his next victim could be strapped to a bed or staked out onto a huge piece of fabric like a giant canvas. The fear of the victim would make her heart beat harder, faster, and that would make it all the better. The blood would shoot out further as he cut into her because of the added pressure, creating patterns more complicated and beautiful.
Maybe he could see his friends at the Market Square and get some kind of stimulant that would make the heart beat faster still. Then, maybe as the killing blow, the coup de gras, he could hang her like an animal at an abattoir and collect her blood in a bowl as he slit her throat. Then, finally, he could indulge in a little finger painting, flicking the blood onto the canvas. Should he leave the white shape of the human body in the middle untouched, or fill it with blood from the bowl? No, leaving it clean would be a fitting monument to the virgin he would rape and kill.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the tram was almost empty by the time it reached Moor Bridge and that the woman with the buggy had gone. He decided to sit down. He was glad of the rest. His heart rate had returned to normal, and the adrenaline and lactic acid were beginning to take their toll on his body.
Then he realized what had been bugging him.
His pocket was empty. Not his left one, which still had his car keys in. It was his little collection, the one that had taken him months to acquire. It was too late now. They were no doubt in the hands of the filth and already smelling of bacon. He realized he’d made a big mistake, and it could be his undoin
g.
The tram terminated at Hucknall. He got off and walked to the new houses behind Tesco and back to his car. He was about to get in when he remembered he needed something from the house. He disappeared inside.
Fifty
We got to the Queen’s Medical Centre. The police car pulled up alongside us. Chris and Bernie got Sarah unloaded as quickly as they could. I stepped back so the professionals could do their job. A crowd of people came rushing out of the rear entrance to ED and joined Bernie and Chris in wheeling Sarah inside. I followed close behind, entering a place that I’d never had to go to before. It certainly wasn’t where I had expected to spend the evening.
They immediately turned right and into the resuscitation area, just as Bernie had told me they would as we approached the hospital.
She took my arm. ‘I’m afraid you can’t go in, Alex. You’ll have to stay in the main waiting area. Follow me, love.’ She took me through a handful of doors and within moments I was lost. It was a confusing maze just as Byron had been for the first few days. ‘Just sit here. Don’t worry. I’ll look after her for you. Someone will be along to speak to you soon.’ She gave me a comforting smile before disappearing through a pair of security doors, presumably to re-join the team.
I held my head in my hands for a while and then looked up. Two police officers were waiting nearby and trying to look casual about watching me. They were failing miserably. Despite my watchers, and the other people in the waiting area, I felt alone. Whenever Sarah left my sight recently, I seemed to feel this way. But now it was worse, much worse. Now I had something to lose.
I was surprised to be waiting in the main thoroughfare. From what I’d seen on Casualty I expected to be in a private, relatives’ room. Mind you, I hadn’t watched that show for years, not having a TV anymore.
I waited.
And waited.
‘Alex Freeman?’ A nurse called out. I got up, made eye contact and raised my hand in the universal sign of that’s me. Most of the people in the collective area glanced at me for a second. Probably wishing it was them she had come for, so they didn’t have to wait any longer.
‘We’re about to take Sarah down to x-ray. The doctor’s said you can come too if you like,’ she said with a warm smile.
‘Is she okay?’
‘The doctor will come and see you shortly. As soon as we have the x-rays she’ll go down to the theatre and a surgeon will set the leg. It’ll be plastered, and then we’ll take her up to the Intensive Care Unit.’
Thx for nothing. U better hav a gd excuse wen I C U Monday or u’ll end up in the ICU!
Sarah’s text flashed through my memory. Just less than a week ago. Ironic and prophetic.
‘Is she awake? Can I talk to her?’
‘I’m afraid not. Like I said, the doctor will see you as soon as he can.’
‘I think I’ll wait. I’m not sure I could bear to see her right now.’
‘I understand. I’ll send the doctor as soon as I can.’ She gave me another of her warm smiles and disappeared.
I waited.
Fifty-One
‘Looks like a lot of blood. She took one hell of a dive,’ DC Stokes said. He shivered, slid his hands into his trouser pockets, and looked up at the open window. A member of the SOCO team, more commonly known as CSIs these days, was working there, collecting samples for forensic analysis.
‘Bit late to be practising for the Olympics, isn’t it?’ Rees said as he traced the fall with his hand and made a dive bombing sound. Stokes ignored the sergeant’s gallows humour. Catching the young officer's expression, he said, ‘You’ll be doing it soon enough. You’ll find it helps.’
‘What, diving?’
‘No, making jok…’ Rees stopped and looked at the crooked smile on the handsome man’s face. ‘Very funny, Stokes. Ha, ha! Anything promising from the people you’ve interviewed so far?’
‘Maybe,’ Stokes said. ‘Robert Stephenson and Jason Halloway, the two lads who witnessed the fall, had some interesting things to say.’
‘Tell me about them in the car when we head down to the QMC to speak to that Freeman fellow.’
‘Alex Freeman?’
‘Yes, that’s the one,’ said Rees. He headed back up the pathway and climbed under the blue and white tape. Rees was deliberately making his DC wait. It was a test. Would Stokes remember to bring it up again in the car? It would show that he was on the ball, thinking about the case, remembering pertinent facts, and keeping track of multiple ideas and lines of enquiry while ordering, categorising and prioritising them in his mind. Not an easy task for someone new to the job.
‘I want to check the flat and make sure we have everything we need before we head off,’ Rees said, mounting the steps and entering the building as Stokes ducked back under the tape and followed him inside.
The two detectives made their way upstairs, neither saying a word, following the CAP that would lead them up the stairs and into the apartment. Rees could see that Stokes was taking everything in – thinking, analysing.
Another member of the SOCO team was working around the victim’s door frame as the detectives arrived. ‘Ay up, Rees,’ came the muffled public school educated voice from below the white mask.
‘Ay up, Barrington.’ The Midlands' expression sounded strange and alien when coupled with Rees’ Welsh accent.
‘We meet again at last,’ the CSI said, breathing heavily through his mask. It was an old joke that Barrington always pulled. Rees had heard of Darth Vader but not seen the film so didn’t fully appreciate it.
‘I see your sense of humour hasn’t improved,’ Rees said.
The mask moved as the CSI smiled. ‘Neither has your accent.’
‘Touché! Can we get past?’
‘I just need to finish up. Luckily I didn’t need to use the ultra-violet light to find the blood,’ Barrington said, pointing at the wall. ‘Put a set of gloves and shoe covers on while you wait. As soon as I’ve finished I’ll hand over the scene, and you can do with it as you see fit’. He pointed at two boxes sitting outside the flat door.
‘You’re so kind,’ said Rees as he poked his head in through the doorframe. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘What is it?’ asked Stokes.
‘Look at this.’
‘That’s not so bad. I was expecting worse,’ said the young detective as he looked at the blood covered wall. ‘I guess we can definitely count this out as an accident now.’
‘I’m not talking about that. Look at how the other half lives,’ Rees said as he beckoned Stokes forward and pointed down the hallway. ‘What do you think one of these costs?’
‘I don’t know,’ Stokes said, ‘But a lot more than what a teacher earns, I’ll bet.’
PC Atkins, the first officer on the scene, had filled the SIO and Stokes in on everything she had found out so far, which included Sarah Alec’s profession.
‘Perhaps you’d care to look at the blood now?’ Barrington said sarcastically. ‘If you’re impressed with the hallway, you’ll have the time of your life in the living area.’
Rees took a quick look and stepped back so he could put on gloves and shoe covers, and allow Stokes a clearer inspection. The vicious spray pattern had run down the wall and photo’s, looking strangely like the gun barrel sequence at the beginning of every James Bond film. Rees handed Stokes the gloves and overshoes, and the DC covered his hands and feet.
‘You can come in now, Alun,’ Barrington said as he stepped back into the bedroom, careful not to disturb the scattered feathers.
The two police officers worked their way down the hallway. Stokes stopped and looked down at the broken telephone which was buried inside the plasterboard wall. A boot print decorated it too. The evidence was numbered, already spotted and selected by one of the CSIs.
‘Looks like she tried to call for help,’ Stokes said.
‘Maybe, but that’s just the internal intercom,’ Rees answered as he walked into the main living area. Inside there were another two CSI and ano
ther member of CID. Rees introduced Stokes.
‘Ahhhh, the one everyone calls Angel Eyes,’ the plain clothes officer said.
‘You the Exhibits Officer, DS Booth?’ Rees asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Found anything interesting?’
‘Surprisingly little, beyond what the SOCO guys have found,’ replied Booth. ‘Some improvised weapons, that’s about it.’
Rees walked deeper into the apartment, ignoring the others around him. ‘Wow, this is posh,’ Rees said as he swept his eyes around the room. It was easy to tell that the furniture didn't come from IKEA - maybe John Lewis, Hopewells or Bang and Olufson. ‘Now, Stokes, just stand by here and have a look. Try and picture what may have happened.’
Rees watched his protégée take in the scene.
There was a table pushed up against the wall with a picture smashed on the floor nearby. It had obviously fallen from the impact as the table hit the wall. Judging by the marks on the floor, it usually sat in the middle of the area. The chairs that accompanied the table littered the floor. There were scuff marks on the laminate flooring from a pair of shoes, as well as a large scattering of raw potatoes and vegetables.
The sofa, one of those ridiculous ones that make an L shape and take up the whole room in a normal house, was at a slight angle. Had someone collided with it and pushed it out of alignment?
Rees stood beside Stokes, and they both looked more carefully and saw indentations in the carpet. The sofa had been moved back about ten centimetres. There was a discarded cooking dish and ceramic flowerpot, its plant and compost littering the cream carpet. The improvised weapons the Exhibits Officer had mentioned? Finally, a vacuum cleaner lay on its side by the French window.
‘Ideas?’ Rees asked.
‘I’ll tell you in the car,’ Stokes replied as he turned to leave the flat.
‘Good, let’s go then.’
‘We’ll be back later,’ Stokes said to Booth as he looked back at the fellow detective. And stopped.