by Bo Brennan
“Happy New Year,” Vicky said flatly.
“This is the one I'm not quite sold on yet,” he said, pointing at an enlarged picture of the moon. “This is a Waxing Gibbous moon.”
“Looks like a half-moon to me,” Len said, leaning on his elbows. Colt thought the same.
“It's the bit after that, Guv,” India said. “The Waxing Gibbous occurs between the first quarter half-moon, that side” – she waved a hand to the left – “and the growth to the full moon. Then it wanes to the third quarter when the other half is lit, then it’s waning crescent, new moon, waxing crescent, first quarter moon, then back to that picture – The Waxing Gibbous.”
Colt raised a brow, it wasn't just him she'd left speechless, everyone was gawping at her. He'd spent weeks trying to get his head round this with the experts, and understood more in the last sixty seconds than the egg heads had ever made clear with their technical jargon.
He cleared his throat and addressed India directly. “Victim 26 received her DVD on April 16th. I'm told that the first quarter moon fell on April 2nd and the full moon on April 9th, so we can date this attack between those dates?”
“Yeah you can,” she said. “It's more half than full, so it would be closer to April 2nd than 9th. That's assuming it is April’s Waxing Gibbous.”
“So it might not be?”
She shrugged. “A lunar cycle's something like twenty-nine days so that occurs every month. It isn't exclusive to April.”
Colt nodded. That was the bit he couldn't reconcile, the part that left a margin of error on specific dating. “Thanks for making that clear,” he said. “Right, moving on.”
He tapped the wall. The enlarged still showed a EuroMillions lottery ticket on a bedside table, a corner insert square showed an enhanced bar code. “Victim 35 religiously purchased her lottery ticket every other Thursday on her way home from work for the next two consecutive draws. Her lucky routine meant she only ever replaced the old ticket with a new one. We checked the serial number with Camelot and that ticket was purchased on Thursday 19th August for the draws on the 20th and 27th. The victim replaced it as normal on Thursday 2nd September. She received her DVD on Wednesday 1st September last year.”
“Jim, that September 1st and 2nd, are those dates the right way round?” Len said.
Colt nodded; there were no flies on this lot this morning. “Her mum brought it to our attention, found it in the DVD player when she was cat sitting the following week.”
Len shook his head and marked his notes.
Tom frowned. “You mean she carried on as usual after watching it?”
“The brain goes into protection and preservation mode,” Lacey cut in. “The victim of a severe psychological trauma will often block the event and go about their normal business like it never happened. It's a phenomenon most commonly seen in adults that were subjected to severe abuse as children.”
“Fascinating,” India huffed, rolling a pencil between her fingers. Colt thought it a refreshing change from her rolling her eyes.
“Oh it is,” Lacey trilled, oblivious to her sarcasm. The woman had the hide of a rhino. “Studies have shown the human body capable of blocking traumatic events for tens of years before seeping into the conscious mind. It's a truly remarkable self-preservation strategy.”
“And how exactly will that help us to find them?” India said, jabbing her pencil to the as yet unnamed faces on the left of the wall.
“You'll never be able to identify all of his victims,” Lacey said matter-of-factly.
India raised a brow and tapped her pad; Colt recognised the determined look of someone picking up the gauntlet when it was thrown down. “So the last attack, before our patch, was over a year ago?” she said, meeting his gaze. “Miss EuroMillions. Victim 35.”
“There was one more. I received a DVD a fortnight later. Victim 36 remains unidentified. As yet,” he added, one corner of his mouth turning up in a half smile. “He's been quiet for a whole year, almost to the day.”
The small brass plaque declared the wooden bench he sat on, ‘Dedicated to the memory of Hilda Flagg 1926 – 2008. Beloved mother & grandmother, who loved this place.' God only knows why. It was truly a god awful place to find yourself.
He sipped his hot coffee, watching the world go by. He'd done her a big favour. What a crappy depressing view she'd had from her bedroom window. Imagine opening your curtains to be greeted by this funereal shit hole every morning.
The germ riddled snotty nosed little oiks hung from the swings and screeched up and down the vandalised slide like Satan spawn. He observed the dowdy fat bedraggled mothers whiling away the hours till the next bag of chicken nuggets needed frying. He grimaced as one bent to lift her grizzling sprog from the ground, exposing a sizable amount of back blubber – adorned with a second rate tramp stamp, and the partial remains of a chewed up thong. He shuddered at the mere thought of where the rest of that miniscule piece of undergarment could lurk.
There was an upside. At least he now knew why children’s play areas were contained within a chain link fence. It was to keep the dregs of society in, so decent people like him could go about their business in peace.
He played with the key in his pocket and frowned, still trying to establish what had really got the party started. Apart from administering it in food, instead of drink, he’d done everything the same. She wasn't any taller, just a little heavier than most. In fact she was probably the perfect specimen. Looked after herself, exfoliated and waxed – everywhere. That had been a pleasant surprise. Maybe that's what it was. Perhaps he'd taken more time with her; she did after all take the trouble of going the extra mile for him.
She was so tight, so smooth.
He wasn't used to them being quite so overt in the throes of ecstasy; he’d always preferred quiet, submissive lovers. But when she opened her eyes and started grinding into him it was almost over too soon.
She was a noisy fuck. A right screamer, he had to squeeze her throat to quieten her. At first, he was a little embarrassed by her unabashed pleasure. But once he got used to it, it was fucking awesome. Off the scale. The tighter he squeezed, the tighter she gripped him. She was gagging for it, literally. They reached climax at the same time, her eyes rolling back in her head as his little head exploded. Who'd have thought after all those years of hiding her light under a bushel, or not as it transpired, she'd be such a naughty little minx? He’d never have guessed.
At least he'd saved on postage; she wouldn't need a memento of their night together after all. He sighed, doubted he'd ever find another lover as good as Martha. Fate, he feared, had delivered him the most exhilarating rush he might ever experience. Hey ho, tomorrow’s another day.
He dropped the empty Starbucks cup into the bin at the entrance to the park and proceeded to cross the road. Smiling up at her bedroom window, he strolled past her front gate towards the bright red post box. This time there was just one package to send.
India Kane yawned and gazed towards the window. The sun was shining beyond these four walls. She’d go stir crazy if she was caged again today. They’d been going round in circles, talking for hours, and the only conclusion she’d drawn was that Dr Fox liked the sound of her own voice. “Has he taken a trophy from every victim?” she asked.
Colt frowned, a deep line cut through his forehead. She liked it. She'd watched him sleeping on her sofa for a whole half hour before going to bed herself. Even at rest, the faint scar of that frown was visible.
“The recordings of his attacks are the trophy,” Foxy said, continuing with her well-rehearsed spiel. “A joint memento shared with his victims. He probably watches them repeatedly to perfect his technique, master his craft.”
India propped her chin in her hand and sighed. All she wanted to do was get out there and find who or what Sharon Cutler and Katherine Darcy had in common. And she didn’t want to jump through the circus master’s hoops to do it. “He swiped something from Sharon Cutler's jewellery box,” she said flatly.
> Foxy threw a sideways glance at Colt. There was no hope in hell of her frowning, Botox had seen to that.
Colt leant across the table and peered at her through long dark lashes that feathered across his cheekbones as he slept. “What did he take?”
“I don't know,” India said, standing up and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I'll go ask the family and find out.”
“Sit down, India.” Colt ran his tongue across his teeth and breathed deeply through his nose. “Let me rephrase the question,” he said on a weary exhale. “What makes you think he took something?”
She slumped back into her seat and looked around the table; all of them were eyeballing her expectantly, waiting for some sort of startling revelation. For god’s sake they all watched the bloody thing. She mentally replayed the split second scene in her mind. “It was on the DVD,” she said. “Right at the beginning.”
Chapter 13
Colt clicked off the speaker phone in the office. Len leant back in his chair stroking his beard. “I told you she’d be right,” he muttered. “She doesn’t miss a thing.”
“Except empathy,” Colt said. “She’s definitely missing that.” A family had just lost their daughter and she wanted to charge in there and interrogate them about the contents of the deceased’s jewellery box. Slumping into a chair, he rubbed at the frown lines between his brows, could feel them getting deeper by the day.
“She’s passionate,” Len countered. “Just wants to get the job done.”
“She’s bloody hard work,” Colt said, scrubbing a hand over his head. “And she doesn’t play well with others, either.”
“Sounds like someone I used to know,” Firman said with a smile. Colt grimaced and hung his head. “Call her in, Jim; you can give her the good news.”
“India.” Colt stuck his head round the incident room door and summoned her like a naughty schoolgirl before disappearing again.
“Play nicely,” Dwyer said under his breath as she stood up.
Through the glass panel she could see him loitering in Firman's office doorway, propping the door open with his foot – waiting. She took her time gathering her things; he could wait a little longer.
Foxy was belting up her designer coat and adding a nice slick of ruby lipstick when India casually began a slow saunter across the department. Foxy and her overpowering perfume quickly gained on her.
“India, take a seat.” Colt ushered her inside before turning his attention to the missus. India was expecting him to remind her to pick up an expensive bottle of something wonderful for tonight. Instead, he curtly said, “Where d’you think you’re going?”
Foxy took an exaggerated look at her watch and gave a smug smile. “I'm already over time.”
“If you expect a day’s pay, I expect a day’s work,” Colt said. “Get your arse back in there; I want the profile delivered tonight.”
He slammed the door shut and sat on the corner of Firman’s desk, long beefy legs spread wide. India raised a brow, if he intended speaking to her like that he was taking a bloody big risk putting the crown jewels within easy reach of her boot.
“The FLO for the Cutler family has just confirmed there's a pair of diamond stud earrings in a black velvet pouch missing,” he said. “Well done for spotting it.”
India stared straight at him; if the rest of them had been paying attention instead of squirming they’d have seen it too.
“Apparently Sharon and her sister fell out about them a couple of weeks ago,” he added.
“Fits with your two-week theory,” she said. “What about the others, what are they missing?”
“We’ll dispatch the Family Liaison Officers to find out,” he said, coolly crossing his arms. “And obviously we'll review all the DVDs again.”
“You won't find anything on Katherine Darcy’s,” she said confidently. She'd watched it a trillion times; he'd taken nothing from her. Well, nothing physical anyway. Emotionally and mentally he'd bankrupted her.
“It will be reviewed all the same,” he said.
She got the feeling this was a painful experience for him. Humble Pie wasn't a dish AJ Colt dined on too frequently . . . and he hadn't even cut it yet. India Kane wanted a full slice. Sod it, she wanted the whole damn pie. “When can I speak to the family?”
She watched him silently stand. He cracked his knuckles and shrugged into his marquee sized jacket, a haze of electric blue silk lining that matched the back of his waistcoat briefly visible as he made his way to the door, blatantly ignoring her.
India glared across the desk at her boss in disbelief – he sat impassively, hands behind head, saying nothing at all as this arrogant bastard took the piss out of her.
“Well, are you coming or not?” Colt said, holding the door open. “Sharon’s mother is expecting us.”
India leapt from her seat.
“Black Lexus,” he said, handing her a sparse looking set of keys. “Go on ahead; I need a quick word with Tom.” She tossed the keys in her hand as he walked away. Smart. She'd never driven a Lexus before. Without looking back, he called, “You're in the passenger seat.”
The Family Liaison Officer met them at the door of the palatial three-story seafront residence. She was a short portly woman wearing jeans and a red cable home-knit jumper. “Pleasure to meet you in the flesh, Sir,” she fawned, before quietly adding, “Like I said on the phone, only mum is here. Dad is spending every available minute on the golf course, and her little sister just isn't ready to face anyone yet.”
India didn’t care who was there, she was just glad to be finally out and about learning about Sharon Cutler – something she couldn’t do at her desk. She followed Colt and the FLO down a wide and airy hallway, stained glass door panels casting a colourful spectrum of patterns across the marble floor. The whole house was eerily silent, and the air sweet with the heady scent of fragrant lilies.
The FLO led them into a lamp-lit lounge decorated in opulent golds and creams. Expensive looking heavily swagged curtains covered a huge bay window, blocking out the afternoon winter sun. Had they been drawn, the antique walnut chaise, upholstered in cream flock velvet, was perfectly positioned to take full advantage of an unobstructed view across the common to the sea. Almost lost in the corner of a ginormous cream leather sofa, sat a fragile middle-aged woman with empty haggard eyes.
“Patricia,” the FLO said. “DCI Colt and DC Kane are here.”
Wearily she rose from the sofa and extended her hand to greet them.
“We’re sorry for your loss,” Colt said, softly wrapping her hand in his and guiding her back into her seat as India took in the room. Places like this didn't come cheap; Sharon shared her mother’s expensive tastes.
“Would you like tea?” she whispered, eyes all glazed like she'd popped a handful of Prozac. This is going to be a total washout, India thought.
“It’s okay, Patricia,” the FLO soothed. “I'll take care of it.”
India grabbed the FLO’s arm as she made for the door. “Black coffee, one sugar,” she murmured. Tea was the one constant certainty when visiting a deceased’s family. It was almost as though the bereaved believed that tea had some sort of mythical power to bring back the dead, when sadly it didn’t even have the power to keep the living awake at night.
India sipped at the weak, transparent drink – wishing that she'd told the FLO to chuck two spoonfuls of coffee in – as Patricia told them what a confident, outgoing young woman her daughter had been. It was clear that Sharon was well-loved from the mass of well-wishers’ cards adorning every available surface not taken up by flowers.
Colt listened intently, and gently guided the conversation using subtle, well-placed keywords. India’s ears pricked up when it transpired Sharon had divorced last year after seven years of marriage, and was finding her feet as a single woman again. “Why did they divorce?” she asked.
“They wanted different things. Trevor wanted children, Sharon wasn't ready for that.” Patricia gave a heavy-hearted smile and her eye
s brightened. “She was all about her career, had big plans my Sharon.”
“What sort of plans?” India said, pressing on, ignoring Colt’s warning glance.
“Since the divorce all she talked about was setting up on her own. Nothing major, of course,” Patricia said, “just a small accountancy practice to start with. She was trying to raise the funds.”
“And did she?” India said. “Raise the funds, I mean.”
“I don't know. . .” Patricia's face crumpled and the FLO pressed a tissue into her hand. “She was going to find out this week.”
India wanted to ask if Sharon’s employers knew she was jumping ship, and if she’d mentioned anyone hanging around, or noticed anything unusual recently – but the hulk was already on his feet. “Thank you, Patricia,” he said. “We really appreciate you speaking with us at such a difficult time.”
She blew her nose and looked to India, seemed just as startled as she was that they were leaving so soon. “It's the funeral on Wednesday,” she said. “Will you come?”
India winced at how quickly Sharon’s body had been released. But it was suicide. Cut and dry. No question how she died. And they'd be far too busy trying to find the bastard who drove her to it, to waste time attending her funeral. India looked to Colt, he was the boss, he could break the bad news and tell this grieving mother no.
“Of course we will,” he said.
Colt pulled up outside the drab seafront café. “I'm grabbing a coffee for the journey back, you want one?”
India shook her head, and gazed across the common to the neatly manicured front garden of the family home they’d just left, feeling a strange pang of envy for the deceased. She wondered who’d send cards and flowers and miss her if she was gone tomorrow.