by Sarah Flint
He leant forward and stubbed the cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray. His guts tensed as he moved, sending a spasm through his torso. It was a few hours since they’d last scored and he, for one, needed crack again.
Cecil was sitting opposite, rocking backwards and forwards staring intently at him. He was emitting a low almost sing-song growl as he moved.
‘Do you need more gear?’ Miller asked.
Cecil nodded.
He checked his watch. It was just gone five thirty in the morning. He got up slowly from the sofa, stretched again and pulled back the sheet that covered the window so that he could see out. It was still dark but from behind the roof of the block opposite a weak light was just visible. The sun was on its way. Before it started to rise properly and cast light on his activities he would be back, hidden inside these walls, secreted within Cecil’s dysfunctional life.
‘Let me back in, won’t you. Or you won’t get your white and brown.’ He stepped in close to the old man. ‘And if you don’t open up I’ll smash your fucking door down, you understand?’
Cecil nodded and stood up, walking slowly to the door. He opened it and stood to one side.
‘I’ll be back soon with what we both need.’
He sauntered out and turned one last time towards the old man. He could feel his heart starting to pump at the smell of the fresh, cold air and he couldn’t help a grin spreading across his face, ear to ear. That’s what he’d do next time. He’d get a fresh bottle, find a new fucking immigrant victim and split them open ear to ear.
Chapter 10
Today had been busy. He’d been called to deal with work situations and had to behave as if nothing was wrong, that everything was the same as always, or had been. He’d turned up on time for work, showered and fresh, even though he could have slept far, far longer. What sleep he’d managed, had been deep and contented, the sleep of the righteous. He’d avenged himself for what she had done to him, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a heart for a heart.
It had been a hard day, waiting for work to end. Time had gone so very slowly.
He wasn’t returning to his usual house immediately, the one he shared with several others from similar professions, the address that he gave for everything official. Tonight he was going straight to the room he’d recently rented, the bolthole he used only for planning his future activities, the place where he kept his equipment. Tonight he needed to make everything ready for the following Sunday.
It was only a single room, inside a larger shared house, with little more than a small washbasin, a two-ringed gas hob and space for a single bed, fireplace, table and chest of drawers. A small gas fire stood within the fireplace, the only means of heat. When lit, it barely provided sufficient warmth to keep the frost from the windows. A shared toilet and bathroom was situated down the hallway, a luxury he rarely used.
He’d called a cab to get him to work this morning, his own car being hidden under a cover, in the derelict garage at the rear of his rented room. The garage was in a secluded car park, with few other working vehicles, most of the occupants of the house being unemployed, itinerant sorts who hardly had the money to pay the rent and eat, never mind run a vehicle. Once clean it would be usable again.
As his evening cab dropped him round the corner from his room, he congratulated himself on how outwardly normal he had been; when inside, he could scarcely contain himself. Next week he’d be doing it all over again.
Everything needed sorting out before that though. His hand shook as he removed the heavy-duty padlock from the door to his room. His bag was secreted in the chest of drawers, where he’d hidden it after his night’s activities. Once open it brought the whole exhilarating scenario back to him. There was blood, her blood on his tools, on the clothing he had been wearing, on the bag, on the container. Carefully he sterilised the tools each one boiled in a large saucepan of disinfected water for ten full minutes, as clean as in an operating theatre; cleaner probably.
He washed the small orange juice carton out and threw it in the bin. It didn’t smell of the drug but then it hadn’t at the time either. It was tasteless and odourless and easily concealed within the stronger flavouring. He smiled to himself as he remembered how readily she’d agreed to the walk when he’d turned up on her doorstep out of the blue; to the drive, to discuss plans. How she’d so daintily sipped from the carton until it was all gone, how quickly she’d become unconscious. Her body had never encountered anything like it before. The reaction had been smooth and speedy, spectacular to watch.
The clothes and bag he scrubbed, one at a time, in the hand basin and hung out on the back of the bedstead. He would discard the clothing later, far away, with no obvious signs of blood, just a few rips and tears to put anyone off retrieving them from the rubbish.
The car was next. He prepared what he needed and took it out to the garage, flicking the switch and watching as the meagre light from the single bulb banished some of the darkness. He pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and started setting it back to normal. It needed to be cleansed in order to provide the anonymity that he craved, at least until his mission was complete, if indeed it ever was. He couldn’t be caught. Not until he’d eliminated all those on his list that had done him wrong. Then he would disappear, blend back into society. Start a new list if required.
The plastic sheeting was scrubbed and folded neatly back in the boot, the interior vacuumed, the windows washed in disinfectant. He liked everything to be perfect. He took the air freshener hanging from the mirror and re-sprayed it with the scent he loved the best; the smell of his childhood, the aroma of his life, until it was taken away from him so cruelly, by dirty insinuations and gossip.
He locked the car doors and made his way back to his room, a surge of resentment overwhelming his composure. He had done nothing wrong; nothing, but shown love and compassion for the vulnerable. He had loved, so many times, so many beautiful, pure times; just to have it thrown back in his face, made sordid. He thought of those he’d loved, some were still alive, some had died; all were imprinted in his memory, most were easy to find.
Once his bag was dry he’d pack everything ready. He’d measure out the next few batches of the drug. It was so easy. The internet told him everything he needed to know about the quantities required and practice made perfect. He couldn’t wait. Tomorrow he would act as normal, concentrate as normal, communicate as normal. Tomorrow and the next day and for a few days longer he would go to work and return to his usual home to eat and sleep, but in the spare hours of the evening he would come to this room to confirm his plans. He would drive out, check on his intended victims and make his last preparations.
Tonight wasn’t over yet though. He still had time to review the documents on his laptop. The name of his next victim was there; along with their current address, their car, where they worked, their associates, hobbies, family. Everything was so readily available for viewing these days, on Google, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter; whole lives displayed for the world to see. It had made his mission so much easier.
He scrolled down to his favourite part of the document; the photos, copied and pasted from the internet. His next victim smiled back at him – little did they know what was coming. The images were all there: holiday snaps, selfies, photos on the train, in the street, eating, drinking with friends, alone, with one particular man. He hated the man even though he knew nothing about him. All he knew was that man had taken his place and for that, he was willing to kill.
He wanted one last look. They looked so happy together, smiling, close, their arms wrapped around each other. He stared down at their faces, recognising the look of love; he’d seen it many times before. They were obviously satisfied and fulfilled, carefree. Their life was so different from his.
His fury was threatening to engulf him again. Now was not the time. He snapped the laptop shut and stood up, pacing round the room angrily. His eyes turned towards the fireplace in the centre of the wall and he stood stock-still, calming immediately.
He cast his sight on to the box on the mantelpiece, between two photos; one of himself at work and the other of his parents, standing together, proudly smiling, both dead now. They had been all the family he had, bittersweet memories. The box was made from gold plate, with rows of coloured jewels that shimmered and shone if touched by the slightest suggestion of light. It had been his since childhood. His parents had given it to him when he’d reached the age of sixteen.
At times when he’d looked at the box he’d hated it. At times he’d wanted to throw it to the ground, to watch as it smashed and splintered into tiny pieces. But he could never do it; it remained like a chain around his neck, a constant memory of his parents and all they had wanted. It had travelled with him throughout his life, his feelings for it waning and flourishing with his life’s experience.
At present though, it was loved; much loved and treasured.
He dipped his head and leant forward, flicking the hidden catches and removing the lid. Carefully he reached inside the box, lifting out a strong, Perspex container. The container was clean and clear. He held it up to the light to get a better look at its contents, his heart soaring at the sight. The new addition was floating in the liquid. It looked fresh and new and perfect. It bobbed up and down enticingly. There was plenty of space for more, many more.
He moved the container round in his hands, counting aloud as he relived each addition.
‘One, two, three, four.’
He smiled at his latest acquisition; so perfect, the varnish still fresh and bright.
‘Five fingers and counting!’
Chapter 11
Tuesday morning started with a phone call from her mother, Meg.
‘Are you still coming over for dinner tonight?’
Her mother phoned her every Tuesday morning to ask her the same thing, and each week she said the same thing in return. ‘Yes please, Mum, but I’ll let you know how the day is going as to what time I’ll be there. Feel free to join me tomorrow morning?’
Every Tuesday morning her mother would respond with a silence that seemed to last longer each week before finally saying, ‘OK, love, I’ll see you later then.’
Meg would never answer her question and would never come to Jamie’s grave with her.
Charlie checked her watch, swallowing back the tears of disappointment and broke into a jog, sprinting the last few hundred yards towards Lambeth HQ. By the time she got there, she had run the frustration out of her system for another week and was ready to face the day, a smile planted on her face, prepared for any new challenge.
Hunter was already in his office, scanning through the day’s enquiries. He saw her and beckoned her in.
‘We’ve got the post mortem to go to first thing but after that I want us to get to the academy where Susan Barton worked. See if we can catch some of her colleagues while they’re not too tied up with lessons or have their lunch breaks. Bet is going to start on the CCTV and Paul is searching Mickey Barton’s history.’ He looked her up and down, shaking his head in mock despair, like a weary parent. ‘Smarten yourself up while I check in with the MIT team and then we’ll head out.’
Charlie grinned and headed straight to the bathroom, dousing herself in perfume and attempting to pull a brush through her hair. Ben’s shower was OK but, without her toiletries, she always ended up smelling more of Paco Rabanne, than her favourite Ylang Ylang. She had to admit she wasn’t the most feminine policewoman at the station; far from it, but she did like to at least try to smell like a girl. She was ready in double quick time, a fact not lost on Hunter as she walked back in, still attempting to smooth out some of the wrinkles in her trousers.
‘Quick, but sloppy-looking. You’ll have to do. At least you smell nice.’ He sniffed the air and shook his head. ‘One day…’
Bet laughed. ‘Boss, we’ll be long gone by the time that one day comes around, if it ever does. Mind you, it’s Wednesday tomorrow. At least she’ll have a pile of fresh laundry done for her by her mum tonight. Isn’t that right?’
‘Ah yes, thanks Bet.’ Charlie’s face broke into a wide grin. ‘I must remember to bag all my dirty stuff up ready for dinner. There’s rather a lot this week. I’ve been in training with Ben.’
‘Your mum must love you.’ Hunter scolded, clearly amused.
‘You all love me. You know you do. It’s like home from home when you come to work. Stroppy teenagers and all that. Though, as you’ve pointed out I’m more sloppy than stroppy.’
‘I don’t know about that, but at least you get on with the work, not like my boy. Never gets out of bed. I have to prise him out from under the covers every morning when I’m there and even then he rarely shows before midday.’
‘Well there you go then. Be grateful I always turn up and work hard; what’s a little dishevelment among friends. Anyway I’m ready when you are, boss.’
Hunter pulled a coat on and started walking. ‘Bet, Paul,’ he called over to them. ‘Let me know if you get anything straight away.’ He turned back to Charlie. ‘Right first stop, the mortuary.’
*
The mortuary was situated next to St Georges Hospital in Tooting. It was a large facility whose staff conducted both coroners and forensic post mortems, and it was also the regional centre dealing with stillbirths and miscarriages in South London and South East England.
Charlie had been there on many previous occasions before. Post mortems were one of the worst parts of the job for her, having often dealt with the walking, talking person before death but she did have to admit to being fascinated by the intricate workings of the human body when it was literally laid out before her. She had harboured a desire to join the medical profession prior to joining the police service but would never have got the grades required. If the main pathologist, Dr Reginald ‘Reggie’ Crane saw her there, he would always take the time to show her exactly what had caused the person’s death, if it wasn’t obvious.
It didn’t take long for them to get there and they were soon parking up and walking towards the building. It was relatively new and featured a few single rooms as well as the main lab where Charlie had often seen up to twelve bodies all laid out ready for examination.
Susan’s body had been moved from the main viewing room where Mickey Barton had identified her, to one of the smaller path labs, clinical and sparse, made up mainly of stainless-steel slabs, drains and wash areas. She and Hunter donned surgical gowns, hair-nets and overshoes and entered the lab, choosing initially to leave their face masks down across their necks.
A detective from the Murder Investigation Team was already there, having spent a couple of hours with the Scene of Crime Officer and pathologist bagging up each item of clothing and taking hair and saliva samples, as well as various other swabs and scrapings. Blood and urine samples had already been taken to be sent off for a toxicology report, testing for alcohol and drugs primarily. A large row of paper evidence bags, tubes and containers were placed across a work area, all neatly written and exhibited by the SOCO and witnessed by the detective.
By the time they entered Dr Crane was almost ready to start the actual examination.
‘Good morning Reggie,’ Hunter greeted the pathologist. ‘Good to see you again. How’s it going?’ He nodded towards the SOCO and the detective, DC George Robertson, who Charlie knew of old. She mouthed the word “OK?” to him and DC Robertson pulled his face mask down, shrugged and grimaced back. They had obtained all the evidence in the way of DNA, fibres and samples. His job was nearly done.
‘Good morning, Geoffrey. Charlie, always good to see you too.’ Dr Crane went to hold out his bloodied, gloved hand to Hunter, then obviously thought better of it and withdrew the offer. ‘Sorry it’s always under these circumstances though. Maybe one day we should arrange to meet in a bar rather than over a body. Much more amenable to conversation don’t you think.’
Hunter nodded. ‘Yes, we should. We’ll have to see about it soon.’
Charlie couldn’t help smiling to herself. She wond
ered how exactly a conversation between the two men would go after a few drinks. It would likely turn into a competition between them as to who had dealt with the worst cases, and knowing how competitive they both were, by the end of the night it would be too grisly for human consumption; certainly to be overheard in public. Thankfully, it was unlikely to ever happen; both men were far too busy.
‘Right, ladies and gents, are we ready? Let’s get started then.’
Dr Crane pulled his face mask into place and moved across to the body, getting his Dictaphone ready as he approached. With a bit of luck, in a few hours they would know exactly what had caused Susan Barton’s death, what had led up to it and what happened afterwards. Neither man would be satisfied with anything less.
Charlie looked at Susan Barton, her body naked and exposed on the stainless-steel slab. There was no dignity in death, even less when the death came as a result of murder. Every part of her body had to be swabbed, scraped and examined in minute detail, every scrap of self-respect stripped from her. Only if they could find and convict her killer would she and her family be offered any solace, only then would she be allowed dignity and to finally rest in peace. They needed to do this.
‘Right, we have a white female, in her early fifties, approximately five feet three inches tall, slim to medium build. On first sight her thoracic area has been opened and her heart removed. Her left ring finger has also been severed. There are a number of contusions and grazes, synonymous with possible ligature marks on her wrists, ankles and mouth, along with some possible blunt trauma injuries.’
‘So, she was tied up and taken to the cemetery?’ Hunter queried.
‘It’s too early to say yet. With respect; might I suggest you listen to my observations and allow me to conduct the full examination before asking me questions? I might then be in a position to make statements based on fact, rather than trying to pre-suppose what has happened.’
Hunter frowned. He didn’t like being told what to do, but Dr Crane clearly was the boss in this environment, just as Hunter would be in a police station. He nodded and took a step back; his way of letting the pathologist know he would accede superiority to him, without having to actually apologise.