The Trophy Taker

by Sarah Flint

  THE TROPHY TAKER

  Sarah Flint

  Start Reading

  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About The Trophy Taker

  He keeps each floating in Formaldehyde to stop them from rotting. Each finger denotes a victim, tortured and butchered, their heart ripped out and discarded, replaced instead by symbols of their treachery. He sits alone admiring his trophies weekly; each and everyone of them guilty in his eyes. And now more must pay.

  But who or what links the victims?

  DC ‘Charlie’ Stafford is already investigating a series of escalating racist attacks and it now seems she has a vicious serial killer on her patch. With no leads and time running out, the team at Lambeth are at near breaking point.

  Something has to give… and all the while he’s watching, waiting… and counting.

  To all the people I’ve worked with, whose job it is to deal with all the people I write about.

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  About The Trophy Taker

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Acknowledgements

  About Sarah Flint

  About the DC Charlotte Stafford Series

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  Prologue

  32 years ago

  The bride looked beautiful that day. ‘Radiant’ was how she was described by all who witnessed her slow glide up the aisle on the arm of her proud father. The church was full, each person straining to catch a glimpse of her gown, the smile she wore, the look on her bridegroom’s face as he turned to take in the totality of her love for him.

  His eyes flicked from one to the other, watching for that moment, that second of pure delight. How he hated it. It was the moment when he knew he had finally lost. It was the split-second reinforcement that he was always the one to be overlooked.

  The service had started now. He wanted his love to be the impediment to their marriage but he stayed quiet. He heard the words of the vows as they were spoken, wishing they were being made to him. Till death us do part.

  She turned towards her new husband and they kissed, their lips sealing his fate. He felt his anger soar. He stared, enraged, as they stayed in their embrace for far too long, her lips now sealing her own fate.

  He could feel his heart beating wildly as they pulled apart and smiled into each other’s eyes, blissfully unaware of his wrath. They turned and walked down the aisle, hand in hand, alive with happiness, passing all the joyful people on either side, out, out into the bright sunshine of the day.

  He fixed his eyes on her as she left, the way her long, blonde hair cascaded down her back. His heart became calm, numb even, and under his breath he muttered to himself.

  ‘You ripped my heart out, Susan. One day I’ll have yours.

  Chapter 1

  October 2016

  Wind whipped at the top of the trees, sending the upper branches into a frenzy as he drove slowly towards the rear of the graveyard. He stopped, lowering the window with his gloved hand and breathed in the scent of tiny tornadoes of falling leaves, as they swirled around the edges of the darkened roadway. They smelt wet, musty, earthy; as decaying as the air all around them.

  He walked to the rear of the car, grabbed his tool bag and then hoisted her up off the plastic sheeting on to his shoulders, carrying her along the well-worn footway. She was heavier than he had imagined, almost a dead weight.

  An ancient lamp post lit his way, its metallic casing rattling harshly, its light wavering and dancing with the breeze. To his left, a row of small blue teddy bears lined the edge of a tiny grave, the words of love on its tombstone starkly illustrating the agony of losing such a young child. Several vases of colourful flowers and toys had blown over, their contents spilling out across the memorial. He saw them and he wanted to restore them to their original positions. The child had done no harm to anyone. It didn’t deserve to die, as she did.

  The wind was getting stronger. Tree boughs slapped against high stone tombs, a fox skulked out from behind a copse of elms, standing stationary to sniff at the ripples of air as he had done. Cut flowers tumbled along the pathways, mixing with beloved graveside treasures, until they ended up tossed together and thrown into corners. The wind would mask any sound he might make. It was good.

  He continued to walk, struggling to keep her unconscious body hefted high. He was nearly there now. The part of the cemetery to which he was headed was shielded by high hedges on all sides, the hustle and bustle of the city held at bay. Here within the sanctuary of the perimeter walls all sound was muted, all sights guarded; it was perfect for privacy. Perfect to give him time with her, time that he never had before, that he had always wanted. He felt her body twitch slightly; maybe she was coming round.

  The moon was nearly full, its light bright, intermittently eclipsed by the movement of the clouds as they scudded across the sky, harried by the wind. The path led up a slight hill to his chosen spot. He turned and checked there was no one in sight, stopping momentarily to admire the contours of London’s iconic landmarks, silhouetted across his eyeline; a fitting backdrop for the act to come. They were all alone. Through the gap in the hedges and they were there.

  He heaved her down off his shoulders and laid her across a smooth horizontal tombstone. Her eyes were closed as if in sleep but her muscles twitched involuntarily; she had yet to properly emerge from her comatose state. Quickly he bound her wrists and ankles, and covered her mouth, watching for any further sign of movement. None came.

  He leant over, fanning her beautiful hair out across her shoulder blades. It felt soft, silky almost, but shorter now than it had been when they’d first met, when he’d fallen in love with her. He followed the neckline of her blouse down towards her breasts, pale in the partial light, catching a hint of her perfume, flowery and delicate, no doubt chosen by her husband. He breathed it in, letting the scent fan his senses, feeling the familiar pangs of jealousy and injustice stir.

  His anger awakened, he bent down and opened the bag. His tools were ready, clean, sterile and sharpened in preparation. He took them out one by one, the stiletto blade, the hunting knife, the rib-cutters, and laid them out across the gravestone. He couldn’t help smiling to himself. She deserved what she was about to get; every second of pain, every moment, reliving how different it could have been.

  A strong gust of wind sent a small branch crashing down next to her. She stirred slightly and opened her eyes, blinking back even the faded light from the sky. She was confused, her brow cr
eased as she struggled to comprehend what was happening. Her head turned towards him and she stared into his face, seeing the familiar features but not understanding as yet why she was there. But did she really recognise him? He didn’t know, but he hoped she did because then she might fully appreciate what was to happen.

  She tried to shift her body upright but the bindings prevented her easy movement and she was still not yet fully in control of her limbs. She rolled on to her side but he was on to her, his strong muscular frame pinning her easily back against the tombstone. She tried to struggle but her efforts were futile. He climbed astride her, acknowledging his growing desire. He wanted her. He always had and he always would but she had made her choice and if he couldn’t have her, then nor would anyone else.

  He could see the fear in her now; real and intense, her eyes full of terror, burning bright like the fires of hell. He took her left hand, running his fingers over hers, through hers, one by one; feeling the softness of her skin and seeing how well-manicured and beautifully painted each nail appeared. Her hands trembled at his touch. Was it passion or fear? He didn’t know. He came to her ring finger and saw at once the gold band that symbolised her attachment to another. His heart froze at the sight. His mind was made up.

  Picking up the rib-cutters, he slotted the offending finger between the blades and forced them shut. Her finger dropped on to the slab beneath her, blood spurting from her hand. Her mouth moved open and shut with shock but the gag stopped any sound from escaping. She hadn’t expected this. She deserved the pain, but he had always loved her and he couldn’t be too cruel.

  He leant back, his weight pressing her hips to the stone and spread her jacket open wide, slitting her thin jumper apart with the hunting knife, before carefully unbuttoning her blouse and slipping the blade through the fabric of her bra. Reverently, he peeled the lacy fabric to the sides taking in his first sight of her breasts; bare flesh, pale and inviting. Her skin was velvety to the touch, fresh and sweet-smelling, gentle against his lips. Her body tensed at the press of his mouth, bucking against his touch. He stopped, his desire immediately waning. She didn’t want him now; and she hadn’t wanted him then. Her last chance was spent.

  He closed his eyes against the sight of her body. He could never have her properly, not the way he would have liked; not if the feeling was not mutual. He had waited this long in the hope she would respond but now her destiny was sealed.

  Swivelling round, he picked up the stiletto blade, weaving it slowly across her eyeline. Her pupils followed it, transfixed, as he moved it over her head, her body, her neck and then slowly back down until it was over her heart.

  The blade pressed against her skin, the indentation rising and falling with the pressure of the point as her heart beat against it. Her eyes pleaded for mercy, her voice muffled within the binding as she shook her head from side to side, apparently trying to establish an escape route. There was none.

  The time had come for her to die. He cared nothing for her fear. She deserved everything she got for her betrayal. Leaning forward, he let his chest rest against the handle of the blade, allowing the metal to pierce her skin. Blood sprang up at the point, pooling around the cut. He lifted his body slightly, excited now at the sight of more blood. She started to wriggle, the desire to live fuelling her last few desperate jerks, but it was too late; far, far too late. The look in her eyes was just as compelling as it had been all those years ago, just as compelling as when he’d found her more recently, but instead of love, they were full of terror.

  With a glance at his tools laid out ready for him, he turned and stared emotionlessly at her, before dropping forward again, his body forcing the stiletto blade straight through her heart.

  Chapter 2

  DC Charlie Stafford eyed the custody screen with satisfaction. A charge of GBH and robbery was a great result, especially after the four solid months of hard work she’d put into this case. It was also particularly good to see that the Crown Prosecution Service had agreed to her application for the offence charged to be shown as having been racially aggravated. It was a difficult offence to prove but it carried a greater sentence and it was what her unit, the Community Support Unit, was tasked to investigate.

  Led by Detective Inspector Geoffrey Hunter, or Hunter as he was better known, the CSU dealt with any cases involving domestic violence or offences targeting persons for their race, faith, sexual orientation or disability. The majority of their work related to domestic incidents, but in the last few years more and more victims of hate crimes were finding the strength to come forward. Taboos were being broken, victims becoming braver. Charlie’s unit was therefore becoming increasingly busy, their caseload greater and more varied and their diligence, persistence and hard work noticed by the local Senior Management Team at Lambeth. After their recent success in dealing with a particularly disturbing series of murders, the reputation of their team, and in particular Charlie, was heightened to such an extent that members of the unit, sometimes all of them, were seconded to assist the Murder Investigation Teams. It hadn’t been easy though.

  The case in front of her now was as close to being a murder as was possible without the victim actually having died. For Charlie it had become almost a personal crusade to identify the perpetrator and get him incarcerated. She stood next to the suspect as the charge was read out.

  ‘On Friday 17th June 2016 at Estreham Road, SW16, you unlawfully and maliciously wounded Mr Moses Sinkler and the offence was racially aggravated within the terms of section 28 of the Crime and Disorder Act 1998. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention now, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  Cornell Miller sniffed, wiped the back of his hand across his face and looked towards the clock, making it obvious he didn’t care as the caution was read out. He was thirty-eight years old, solidly built, with over six feet of rippling muscle, having spent his last term of imprisonment working out in the prison gym. He pulled his T-shirt up so that his stomach was exposed, rock hard and toned, and scratched languidly at the light smattering of fair hair that covered his skin, winking towards Charlie as he did so. She ignored him, instead concentrating on the words of the custody sergeant.

  ‘You are further charged that on Friday 17th June 2016 you did rob Mr Moses Sinkler in Estreham Road, SW16. That is contrary to section 8 Theft Act 1968.’

  He had nothing to say, he never did, until the time came for his solicitor to ask for bail. This time though even his solicitor’s plea was lacklustre. There was no way Cornell Miller would be walking the streets for a good few years if Charlie had anything to do with it. He was scum. Pure unequivocal racist scum and the public, particularly those in the black and Asian communities needed to be protected from him.

  The case had initially been assigned to her office because of the racist element to it. Her boss, Hunter, had given it to her to investigate and tonight was the culmination of all her work. She eyed Miller as he scratched his belly again, thinking about what he had done. She had thought of little else, since reading the details the first time.

  It had been 5.15 a.m. when he had struck. 5.15 a.m., when there was hardly a soul on the streets to hear his victim’s screams; when there was no one to witness the excessive, unnecessary violence meted out on an unassuming, hard-working Jamaican man, nearing the end of an extended career spent coaching kids to play football. Moses Sinkler had been nipping to the local cashpoint to get twenty quid to give to the missus for some groceries when Cornell Miller had spotted him. Miller was coming down from a crack-cocaine high and needed some more cash to score some heroin before he went to bed, or else he’d never sleep – and he hadn’t slept for days.

  He’d selected the venue well. It was the perfect place for a quick hit. A quiet backstreet with a remote cash machine, tucked into the rear approach to the local train station, still silent before the first train of the day at half five. He’d waited for the old Jamaican to with
draw his money; waited and watched and hoped that it would be a decent haul. Silently he’d taken a last draw of his cigarette, before grinding it into the ground and following Moses back across the road, stalking him like a predator, before he attacked.

  But it was the manner of the assault that had really upset Charlie. A scare would have been all that was needed. Moses Sinkler was not a fighter. At seventy-two, he was too old to exchange blows; he would have done what he was told, handed over the cash, capitulated in the face of a much larger, stronger opponent. Cornell Miller barely said a word; his Stanley knife did all his talking, slicing across Moses’ face, neck, shoulders and back, time and time again as the old man screamed out in agony.

  Miller’s only words to Moses, before snatching the single twenty pound note from his victim’s hand were a threat. ‘Tell the police and you’ll be a dead nigger. I’ll be back for you and all your black bastard kids.’

  He had then walked nonchalantly from the scene as his victim lay barely conscious in a growing pool of blood. If it hadn’t been for an early morning dog walker hearing his cries, Moses Sinkler would most likely have bled to death. Only the fabric of his light summer body warmer had saved the wounds to his skin from being deeper, cutting through larger arteries, causing even greater blood loss. Ninety-eight stitches later and after several weeks in hospital, he had emerged a broken man, his body sewn back together but his confidence mortally wounded. He never returned to work and was too afraid to even leave his house, fearing a sortie out from the safety of his home might bring him into contact with his assailant.

  Charlie hated the person who had done this to Moses even before she had worked out who it was. The pure evil of the gratuitous and unnecessary violence had sickened her and she had pulled out all the stops to catch the perpetrator. She’d visited Moses many times and watched his struggle back to physical fitness. She only wished she could help his return to full mental strength.