by Bo Brennan
Gray shook his head. “That's what intense heat does to the human body. Stiffens and twists the limbs into position.”
They listened intently as he outlined the burn pattern and signs of accelerant, pointing out the loft hatch above the bed that welcomed the fire into the roof void and adjoining property. “The windows would’ve blown quickly as accelerant fumes ignited the air,” he said. “Half the estate heard the explosion, your man was lucky to get out of here alive.”
“Is everyone all right?” Colt said. Gray frowned, looked down at the body on the bed then back at Colt “I meant your guys,” he said. “The fire fighters.”
“We’ve got two in A&E with smoke inhalation,” Gray said. “They did everything they could to get her out but it was just too fierce, their oxygen tanks exhausted.”
“Give them our best,” Colt said. “Us plod owe them a drink.” Gray huffed as the radio hooked to the breast pocket of his fire jacket crackled to life. The ME and additional members of Vicky’s team had arrived on site and were outside suiting up.
Colt observed her from the open door of his car as she slipped the mask from her face and gasped at the outside air, filling her lungs. What had seemed acrid and putrid before now seemed positively pure.
India had been unflinching and emotionally undisturbed inside the house; her coldness had unnerved him more than the charred remains. Now, as she stood next to his sister waiting for the body to come through the first floor window, he could see fleeting signs of emotional turmoil breaking through the everyday mask she wore so well.
He grabbed the front of his scene suit and ripped it from his body in one swift tug, screwed it into a ball and sauntered across the road to join them.
“You’re a long way off patch, Kathy,” Colt said.
“Sure am.” She sighed, pushing the mask up to her forehead. “Bloody cutbacks have reduced Hampshire to two MEs, me in the North and Fisher in the South. Silly old bugger has got himself a broken fibula courtesy of a poor choice of skiing instructor in the Swiss Alps. I’ve been running up my own backside for the last month. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for at least another week, little brother.”
Colt smiled and put an arm around her shoulder. “I could think of worse relatives to work with.”
“Couldn’t we all,” Kathleen mused, and turned her attention to India. “How’s the head?”
“Fine,” India said absently watching the hydraulic platform rise to the bedroom window.
Colt followed her gaze. It was proving a delicate operation to remove the body; her skin had welded to the metal springs of the mattress. Kathleen, being as meticulous as ever, wanted Martha and the mattress removed intact. The bedroom window was the only way out.
“She shouldn’t really be at work today,” Kathleen said, elbowing Colt in the ribs. “You should’ve given her the day off.”
“I’m fine,” India snapped, rolling her eyes.
Colt raised his brows and grinned at his sister. Kathleen shook her head. “Make sure she eats something,” she whispered.
India relished the cold brisk air on her face through the open car windows, the smell of burnt flesh clung to her clothes, seeping into her pores. She glanced across at him. He'd hardly said two words to her all day, hadn't even bothered to ask about her head. A bit rich considering he was the clumsy oaf who KO'd her. She'd been sick last night too, still felt nauseous now, had to battle to keep from gagging back there and she only had a few useless painkillers in her stomach.
As the rabbit warren of the sink estate disappeared behind them, India was relieved to see the motorway sign on the roundabout up ahead. Soon the air passing through the open windows would be moving at seventy miles-per-hour and hopefully taking the stench of death with it.
“Where are you going?” She shifted in her seat as he drove straight over the A27 roundabout, missing the exit that would set them on route to the office.
“I need to eat,” he said, staring straight ahead. “How much have you told Gray Davies about the investigation?”
“Is that why you've got a bug up your arse?” She saw the muscle in his jaw twitch, and his eyes widen, knew she’d overstepped the mark. India pictured herself back on the beat or manning a speed camera as early as next week if she wasn’t careful.
He turned his glare on her. “How much have you told him?” he said evenly.
Stop. Engage brain. Think. “Just the basics,” she said.
“Have you told anyone else?”
“No.”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you about the risks involved of information getting leaked.”
India hung her head as he turned into the packed car park. “You don’t,” she said quietly.
“Can you trust him?”
She didn't have to think about that at all. “Yes.”
“Ok.” He sighed and switched off the engine. “What do you want to eat?”
“Nothing, I’m fine.”
Colt drew a deep breath and stepped from the car.
From the viewpoint the lights of Portsmouth flickered to life as the city below surrendered to the night. India watched him signing autographs for a group of middle-aged bikers in brightly coloured leathers as he collected his food and hurried back towards the car.
Placing two polystyrene cups on the roof, he opened the driver’s door and dropped a brown paper sack into her lap, retrieved the cups and slid in next to her.
“Is it always like that?” she said, nodding in the direction of the midlife crisis gang waving their way.
“No, usually the person in the passenger seat has the courtesy to open the door if I’m buying them dinner.”
India tutted. “I told you I didn't want anything.”
“You’ve got to eat,” he said, thrusting a serviette wrapped cheeseburger into her hand.
Reaching across her body, he pulled a jumbo sized pack of tissues from the glove box and tossed a few into her lap before covering his own. India peered at him when he tucked into his monster burger as though he hadn’t eaten for a week. It was big enough to feed a third world country. Smelt good too. The ketchup covered onions, oozing from the side, were making her mouth water.
She slid the top off her bun and rewrapped it at the first sight of an overcooked, grease laden burger. She placed it on the dashboard, the image of a char grilled woman still too fresh in her mind.
“What's up?”
“Can’t do burger,” she said.
He snatched it off the dashboard, took the burger out and added it to his own, slapped the top back on the bun and passed it to her. “There you go. Cheese and onion bap,” he said. “Now eat.”
“No Vicks?” Lee leered, peering around Colt and India as they joined the team in the incident room.
“She's accompanied the body back with the ME,” Colt said, rubbing his face. It was going to take forever to get rid of this stench from his skin and clothes.
“Which ME have we got?” Tom said.
“Dr Kathleen Colt,” India said wearily.
“Ah man, she is so hot,” Lee enthused. “No pun intended.” Colt cocked his jaw and glared at him. If he ever saw his sister’s name on 'the list' he'd rip his fucking head off and shove it up his arse. Lee Sangrin raised his hands. “No offence intended either, mate.”
Well, it was taken, Colt thought. And I’m not your fucking mate. “Seeing as you've got so much to say, Lee, I'm hoping something useful is going to trip from your lips,” he said, gesturing him to continue.
“We might have something,” he said coyly. “Seems Martha had been preparing to sell up, she'd recently instructed the same agent as Katherine Darcy.”
Colt raised his brows, now that was a turn up for the books.
“She was struggling with the mortgage payments since she'd split with her husband,” Tom added.
Colt pointed at India. “Is Katherine Darcy divorced?”
“Yes,” she said. “So was Sharon Cutler.”
Colt pinched the bridge of his nose, winced when he
realised the smell of charred flesh wasn't just on him but in him. “Okay. Carry on, Tom.”
“We went back through the Darcy records and it was a different office but the same estate agent,” Tom said. “A check with the agent confirmed they only have one valuer covering all of their Hampshire offices.”
“Sharon Cutler's mother said she'd been looking to raise funds,” India said. “She could've had the house valued to release equity or raise a mortgage.”
“India, make the enquiries about both of them.” Colt smoothed his brow. “Find out if Sharon had her house valued and who by. Which solicitor did she use for the divorce? Did Katherine use the same brief? Use the FLOs,” he added. He didn't want her charging round herself like a bull in a bloody china shop. Let the sensitive people do the sensitive work. She was ultra-perceptive, saw things others missed. He needed her to work smarter, learn to utilise and trust the tools at her disposal. “Tell me more about Martha,” he said.
“Her mum said the house had been officially on the market for three weeks,” Tom said. “But the agent had been round to value it the first week in November.”
It wasn't the first time a victim’s house had been on the market; it had been a recurring theme across the country. A few of them had been knee jerk reactions to finding out they'd been attacked in their own homes; understandable. But the possibility existed that they'd previously thought about selling, had the property valued, and the attack was the deciding factor for placing the house on the market. “And it was definitely the same valuer as Katherine Darcy?” Colt said, drumming his fingers on the table.
“Oh yes,” Tom said. “Mr Martin Kennedy of Kennedy Estates.”
Some might say coincidence; the agents were the largest in the area, but they now had one person linked with at least two out of three Hampshire victims. Colt had never believed in coincidence. “What do we know about Mr Kennedy?” he said.
“No record,” Tom said. “Every database drew a blank.”
“Ever worked outside of Hampshire? Freelance with links to any other areas or companies?”
Lee and Tom looked to each other, before Tom said, “We'll find out.”
“I’ll memo the FLOs to establish what dealings our known victims have had with estate agents or valuers in the last three to four years,” Len said stroking his beard.
“And divorce briefs,” Lacey added.
“All legal dealings and anything remotely property related,” Colt said. “In the meantime, let's bring Mr Kennedy in for a little chat.”
“Do you want him in by appointment or by force?” Lee said.
“Appointment,” Veronica said. “You're on very dangerous ground, Detective Chief Inspector; too flimsy for interview let alone arrest.”
Spoilsport. Colt rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his head. “Give him forty-eight hours by appointment,” he said. “If he's uncooperative arrest him for obstructing an investigation.” He looked to Veronica to interject; when she said nothing he knew where he stood – in the middle of a mine field.
“Let's call it a night,” Firman said, rubbing his hands together. “Everybody back here at 0800 hours for a press briefing.” He looked back and forth between Colt and India, wrinkling his nose. “You two need to get a shower.”
Everybody in the room nodded their tired agreement. They stank.
The thought of showering with India Kane crept into Colt’s mind. He'd put her through a bitch of a day as a warped twisted punishment because he was . . . what was he exactly? Whatever he was, he was already being punished for it. Knowing Gray Davies would be the man washing death from her body tonight would keep him from rest.
Chapter 19
Tuesday 7th December
“James can’t do it, it would be like adding fuel to the fire if he appears on camera,” Dr Fox said. “As a female nobody you’re perfect.”
India frowned. For all her qualifications, Foxy was a really crap saleswoman.
“So what d’you say?” Colt said. “Are you up for it?”
India sighed. If being a ‘nobody’ gave her the opportunity to piss on the pervert’s parade and get one more rung up the ladder, she’d do it. “Sure,” she said. “Why not.”
“Don’t worry about a thing,” Media Liaison Officer Sly Majors said, patting her hand. “I’ll be right there with you.”
India threw him a sideways glance and irritably crossed her arms. MLO Majors was used to being in front of the cameras and it showed. He’d stalked into the incident room looking like he'd stepped straight from the pages of a menswear catalogue. She subconsciously tugged at the front of her white cotton shirt and sat up straight, maybe the size twelve wouldn't seem such a snug fit if she got her posture right.
“I wouldn’t worry about that, Kane,” Sangrin sniggered from the safe seat opposite. “The cameras will add twenty pounds to your arse.”
“Right, we've got an hour to get this nailed,” Firman said. “What's in and what's out?”
“Do you want to bait him, taunt him or appease him?” Dr Fox asked, setting the tone.
“Isn’t the main objective to warn women?” Veronica snapped.
“Of course,” Foxy said. “But what message do you want to send him James?”
“That we're going to catch him,” Colt said. “What's the best way to send that loud and clear?”
“He's a narcissist. Belittle him, it will enrage him,” Foxy said.
“That’s a very dangerous strategy,” Veronica said sternly.
“You saw the recording, Veronica,” Foxy snapped. “He's killing for thrills; they don't come more dangerous than that.”
“What's the likely outcome of pissing him off?” India said.
“He'll make mistakes,” Foxy said in a flash.
“Well let's hope it's not us making the mistake,” Dwyer mumbled.
“How do we belittle him?” Firman asked, going along with the plan.
India wasn't so sure it was a good idea. Personally she favoured appealing for witnesses and leaving the nut job himself well alone. But hell, what would she know; she'd just be saying whatever they told her to. A press conference virgin she would gain her wings and fly today, and hopefully better than the Bird Man of Bognor.
“Undermine his masculinity,” Foxy said. “Not overtly but just enough for him to perceive it as a slight.”
“Ok, so we’ll give the press their hook and name him something soppy before they tag him Ripper 2,” Colt said. “Keep that at the back of your minds, we need a name by the time they walk in there. Let's move on there's lots to get through.”
“We've got no forensics,” Vicky said. “But he doesn't know that.”
Veronica sighed. “Stick to the facts, please.”
“Can we at least issue a drink spiking warning, Veronica?” Colt said, and scrubbed a hand over his head when she narrowed her eyes at him. “You've seen all the DVDs, the victims are unconscious. He's giving them something.”
“Ok,” she said, scribbling notes. “You can go with a general spiking warning.”
“What about the DVDs themselves, Colt,” Sly said. “Do you want them in the public domain?”
“No, we'll need something to filter the leads by.”
“Good call,” Foxy trilled. “Of course, he'll think his talents have been overlooked as well.”
India stole a discreet look at the clock, thirty minutes to go and her mouth was dry already. She could really do with a coffee, a pee, and a mirror check before they kicked off. The press conference was going out live, and the only people in front of the cameras today would be dapper Sly Majors – expert media manipulator, and India Kane, wearing a shirt too small and feeling like a bag of shit tied in the middle. This could be the stepping stone to promotion she needed.
AJ Colt stood in front of the monitor relaying the live feed to the back room, feet planted wide, arms folded tightly across his chest. It was packed out there. With every seat taken, reporters stood two deep at the back, lining the wall. It was go
ing to be a tough gig for a first timer.
He watched her dip her head and blink rapidly as she entered the room, adjusting her eyes to the flashing bulbs and getting used to the accompanying noise. He smiled as she confidently took her seat and raised her hands, bringing the assembled crowd to silence before beginning her introduction.
Leading with the murder and serious sexual assault in Leigh Park. Good.
Appealing for witnesses through their predetermined timescale. Good.
She was doing great, looked good on screen too, was coming across really well. The fact she was sitting bolt upright and rigid in her seat only served to give her an added air of authority. Colt inclined his head. With every inward breath she took, glimpses of lace were briefly visible through her white cotton shirt around the swell of her breasts. He liked that shirt.
Colt put his hands in his pockets as she progressed, linking the murder to the rapes. Good.
Warned women to be extra vigilant, especially with their drinks. Good.
All contact numbers including Crimestoppers. Good.
Operation Goldilocks. Fucking fantastic. He grinned.
Well hello Detective Constable India Kane, nice tits. He stared at the TV screen, wondering where the hell AJ Colt was. It was the meathead he wanted to see squirming and cracking under pressure. No offence sweetie, but he is the chosen one.
Murder! He laughed aloud. It's not murder sweet cheeks; it's hot and horny fucking fun. She should try it sometime, lighten up a little. He craned his neck; AJ Colt was definitely not in that room. What's he playing at; does he even know this woman? He couldn’t do, meathead loved the limelight way too much to allow anyone else to steal his thunder.
He listened intently as tits described him as a dangerous serial rapist. Jesus Christ, the bitch was on drugs, he didn't need to rape anyone. She needed to mind her mouth or he’d mind it for her. Hmm, that's a quirky little thing she does with her mouth. He wondered if her bra was lacy all over and if she wore panties to match.