‘What happened to me.’ The fear was evident in his tone.
‘Look, Craig, we’re here to help. Just tell us who did this to you.’
‘I er… I don’t know. I didn’t see who it was.’
‘And yet you said it was a misunderstanding.’
‘A misunderstanding. Yeah, that was it, just a misunderstanding.’
‘How do you know it was a misunderstanding?’
‘What?’
‘You just said that you didn’t see who shot you, so how do you know that they didn’t mean to?’
‘What? Did I just say that?’ Panic was rising in his voice. ‘It’s the drugs you see… No, no I don’t mean drugs like that. No, I don’t do anything like that.’ Johnson took a deliberate look up and down at his bare arms, taking in their tell-tale puncture wounds from frequent needle use. ‘I meant the drugs, the hospital drugs they’ve given me here,’ he continued weakly. ‘The codeine or morphine or whatever the fuck they’ve given me has scrambled my memory. To tell the truth, I can’t remember what happened. I don’t even remember what I was doing there.’
‘Really?’ Barnes said, stepping forward. Johnson grabbed his arm and shot him a look that told him not to bother.
‘Get some rest, Mr King, we’ll be returning tomorrow morning.’
* * *
Johnson was soon back in her office with the blinds drawn, filling out her report from the morning. She had no appetite for it but knew she could string it out for the rest of the day undisturbed. The awkwardness that had followed her meeting with Potter had remained as she re-entered CID, and her decision to maintain a low profile was as much for their benefit as it was for hers.
PC Barnes had seemed genuinely disappointed on their return journey to the station and Johnson wondered how many similar experiences he would have to go through before he had the enthusiasm knocked out of him. She tried to cheer him up with reassurances that it was impossible to help those who refused it, but she understood his frustration, having gone through the same thing many times in her career. That’s why the stabbings had captured her imagination so much, and not just through her desire to protect the people she had taken an oath to serve. It had been a game of wits, pitting her skills against those she was chasing. She hadn’t known it at the time, but it somehow now made sense that it had been done by an ex-copper. The arrogance he had displayed by taunting them with the links to his previous crimes could only come from someone who was either deranged and destined to slip up, or someone who knew their investigative methods inside out. And yet Johnson had found the chink in his armour. She didn’t fully understand why things had gone so wrong in St. Albans that he had sought to distance himself from what he had done there, but she had managed to exploit it all the same.
Johnson needed to be there when the next slip up came, because someone couldn’t disappear completely. No matter how well planned and how carefully executed, there was always a trace; however feint. She continued to fill out the pointless report about a pointless case in the hope that, in doing so, it might take her one step closer to the action.
Chapter Fourteen
Within hours of arriving in Benidorm, Brandt already hated the place. It hadn’t taken him long upon realising Franklin could literally be his passport to the continent, that it would be his destination. For someone who didn’t speak a word of any foreign language, Benidorm, with its tens of thousands of British holiday makers and ex-pats, seemed perfect. Yet he hadn’t expected them to be quite so fucking British down there. The place, which had seemed picturesque in the few images he had seen of it in the past, was actually more like Blackpool, just with decent sunshine. Everywhere he turned there was a bar with some tacky English name advertising pints for €2 and cafés with fried breakfasts for €3. He tried to reassure himself that hiding in plain sight was better than sticking out like a sore thumb as a foreigner in a place full of locals, but it was the Brits’ other obsession, besides cheap booze and increasing their cholesterol, that troubled him. Despite them costing many times the price back home, everyone seemed to be walking round with a British newspaper under their arm.
Under other circumstances, his exploits being front page news would have pleased him, but here it was as though every person he saw was carrying his wanted poster around. Not satisfied with speculation that he was at large back in England, he took immediate steps to alter his appearance. Shunning the main hotels because of their likely insistence on wanting to see a passport on check-in, he found himself a villa in a small complex on the edge of town run by a Spanish family. Satisfied that he would be relatively safe there, his next stop had been at an electrical store to purchase a set of hair clippers. Alarmed by his pale scalp he had worn a hat for the first few days when in public, spending time on his balcony back at the villa to gradually tan it, along with the rest of his features. It had taken him a couple of days to hitchhike his way down to the Spanish coast, so he already had a head start with the beard he had intended growing.
The problem for Brandt had been that as soon as he felt less conspicuous about his appearance, he started reflecting more and more on what had happened. That he had managed to make his escape wasn’t just a relief to him; it was also a boost to his fragile ego. He had underestimated how close the police had come to identifying him but remaining at least one step ahead of them confirmed to Brandt that he hadn’t overestimated his own skills. Although his intention had been to kill Johnson, the news that she had survived didn’t concern Brandt. Given that he had been denied the opportunity to fully demonstrate how wrong that vicious newspaper article had been, he reasoned that her being forced to live with the consequences of his visit was perhaps a more fitting punishment.
But with that came the realisation that he too had lost his purpose in life. The suicidal thoughts Brandt had held for many years hadn’t returned, but one day had started to drift into the next without any real meaning. It wasn’t as though he felt he could move on because Franklin’s car had yet to be discovered. He had read snippets in the press about other lines of enquiry that he assumed were an oblique reference to Franklin, but Brandt was still the focus of all their attention.
He slowly became obsessed with how he was being portrayed. The downside of selecting a villa designed to cater for the few Spanish tourists who braved the British dominated Benidorm, was that the television didn’t show any of the English channels. After a couple of days of going from shop to shop to collect the various newspapers that were available over there, he purchased himself a second-hand laptop and took advantage of the complex’s Wi-Fi connection. Brandt didn’t consider himself an IT specialist, but he had embraced the computer revolution in his early career for the advantages it gave his investigations. Whilst limited to programmes that aided his work, in the years after his wife left, he became more adept at the wider applications. His use of the internet had mainly centred around accessing pornography, but as his tastes had become darker and more extreme, he had learned a lot about how to disguise the trail one left online. The last thing he would have wanted whilst still in the force would be for his colleagues to find out about his proclivities.
Yet he didn’t once access explicit material on his new laptop. He didn’t consider that it may have something to do with watching sexual acts no longer being sufficient for his evolving desires, instead convincing himself that he was putting pleasure aside until his work was done. The benefit of having the internet was that it allowed him to see the stories he had missed in the time he had spent getting to Benidorm. Although it had taken a day for the print editions to catch up, news of what he had done had broken whilst he had still been in Belgium. The police had been quick to exploit the publicity in the hope it would aid them in finding him.
Brandt had never expected people to understand his actions, so his portrayal as an abomination had been expected. In the days that followed, questions had been raised about his motives and, although none of them were correct, Brandt was happy that there were no longer sug
gestions as to his sexuality. He guessed they would get to his wife eventually but if there was one thing he knew about Susan, it was that she would be hating the negative attention and would be doing her best to avoid it, even in the face of vast sums of money being offered for her to sell her story.
But as the week wore on Brandt became frustrated by how quickly things changed to other news. He knew that there was only a limited amount that could be said about what had happened, but he also took it as symptomatic of the problems in society that his actions had been trying to address. That the country appeared to be able to move on so fast only reaffirmed his belief that it had become too desensitised; too complacent. It upset Brandt that there was little he could do about it stuck in his Spanish villa, but he knew that there was one card left to play. His abduction of Franklin had initially been to aid his own getaway and then about trying to deflect some of the attention away from him. He had wanted to conceal his death to allow him sufficient time to get to Spain, but now he yearned for Franklin to be found. Not only would it serve to bring his actions to the forefront of the news once more but the revelations in the suicide note would help to keep them there.
Brandt barely paid any attention to the photographs taken of Johnson at the copper’s funeral. He had seen beyond that cold, focused exterior and knew the real person underneath. Instead, he was busy looking into things like the dark web and how to, not only conceal IP addresses, but make them appear like they had come from somewhere else. It would have been easier for him to telephone but aside from the fact he didn’t speak a word of French, there was no such thing as a truly anonymous call. People bought cheap pay as you go phones over the counter for use as burners; discarded as soon as they had served their purpose. What many of them failed to realise is that the number may not be directly associated with them but the signal could be traced like any other. It did not matter that it had been subsequently switched off, the police would be able to track the call to the specific phone mast that it had used. Having gone to all the effort of making it appear like he had remained in the British Isles or, at the very least, heading towards central Europe, the last thing he wanted was to potentially give away his current location.
It took many hours of research for him to feel confident enough to risk sending an email from the new account he had created, but still he decided it would be safer to send it from one of Benidorm’s internet cafés.
Walking into the shop, Brandt portrayed himself as the typically incompetent computer user that characterised much of his generation, he had once heard them referred to as silver surfers. He even asked for the person in charge to help him open up the web browser, despite the clear instructions typed on a laminated sheet in both English and Spanish. Not only would this cover his tracks if, somehow, someone was able to trace it back to here but the manager, anxious that he might be called on to perform every basic function Brandt needed, then found something at the opposite end of the café that required his immediate attention.
He didn’t know why Franklin’s car had remained undiscovered for so long. Perhaps the silt on the lake bed had given way and it had slipped further in, meaning that the roof was no longer visible. Regardless, that it seemingly now fell on him to reveal it allowed Brandt to feel a sense of control again. Once he had performed the various actions he had learned to alter the IP address to one in Belgium, he jumped onto his trusted Google maps and worked out roughly where he had driven the X5 off the small road that went around the lake. Remembering to keep his description of the distance in metric units, he began composing his email.
Chapter Fifteen
Johnson felt like shit the next morning. She had barely slept, not helped by a text she had received from Claire shortly after she had got back to the flat. Presented as innocently as possible, it apologised for forgetting to send the whereabouts of the reception following the funeral and enquired how she was doing. However, Johnson knew the real meaning behind it and, deciding not to play games, she responded that she was back at work. ‘Good’ was the simple reply that followed. That one single word spoke volumes. Johnson was under no illusion that it meant Claire was pleased that she was starting the process of rebuilding her life. It was a prompt that they were relying on her to catch McNeil’s killer, perhaps even a reminder that Johnson was responsible for what happened.
Driving into the station, the belief that she had held yesterday that the case she had been given about the shooting in St. Ann’s would somehow see her return to the fold, had eroded away. She would keep to her promise of revisiting the victim but knew they would continue to gain nothing of use from him. She knew that rather than reconsider his decision to hide the identity of his attacker, the likelihood was that he would have used the intervening hours to come up with a better story for what had happened and why he had been in a drug den in the first place. The best she could do was to tie this one up as quickly as possible, present her findings to DSI Potter and wait for the next pointless case to be sent her way.
Entering the duty area, she approached Sergeant Andrews. ‘Is PC Barnes available again today?’ She hoped that her phrasing it as a request rather than a demand, along with her more pleasant tone, wouldn’t go unnoticed.
What she hadn’t expected was his uneasy expression. ‘Are you going up first?’
‘No, we’re just going to crack on with it,’ she replied breezily before hesitating. ‘Why?’
‘I just think you might like to go on up to CID before you do.’
Johnson was about to ask what the hell had got into him but there was something about the intensity of Andrews’ stare that made her feel uncomfortable. Without responding, she turned and headed for the stairs.
Punching in the number, she could see most of the team were huddled round a computer. Nothing terribly out of the ordinary except for the way they all looked up guiltily as she marched through the door.
‘What?’ She barked.
‘DCI Johnson, you’d better come in here,’ Potter called from the entrance to his office. She shot the others a look of irritation as she followed his instruction.
‘Look, I’m about to go and see him now but, I tell you, it’s a complete waste of time. He’s just going to…’
‘Sit down, Stella,’ he interrupted.
She plonked herself in the chair with a huff. ‘What is it with all the weirdness today? I kind of expected it yesterday, what with it being my first day but first Andrews and now…’
‘Franklin’s body’s been found.’
‘His body? Where?’
‘Belgium, near a place called Ghent. Not too far from Brussels.’
‘Shit, I bloody knew it!’ She stood up and started pacing back and forth in the room. ‘I knew he couldn’t still be in Britain. He’s a loner, he would have been spotted by now…’
‘Hold on Stella. There’s more.’
She stopped and glared at Potter. She hated the way he always seemed so calm, especially the way he always took so long to explain anything.
‘It looks like suicide. Shot himself in the head as he rolled the car into a lake.’
‘What? But that doesn’t make sense. Why would you kill yourself and hide the body?’
‘He left a note. In it he talks about his shame at what he’s done and how he is responsible for what happened.’
‘Let me see it!’
‘No, Stella!’ Potter said firmly. ‘I’m only telling you this because I didn’t want you harassing the others until they told you. We’re on it, okay?’
‘Harassing them? Fuck’s sake, guv, they’re my team! Let me run with this, I’m sure I’ll find something that will lead me to Brandt. He’s behind all this, I know he is.’
Potter put his heads in his hands and sighed. ‘This is the problem, Stella. You’re personally involved now. Of course you are; it’s not your fault. If I show you the note, you’re going to fit it into your pre-conceived notion that he’s the ringleader in all this. What’s more dangerous is that you’ll get the others t
hinking the same as you.’
‘Pre-conceived notion? He was fucking there! Brandt was the one who knocked me out. Brandt was the one who stripped me and tied me up. It was Brandt who climbed on top of me and started… started to…’ Even in her rage, Johnson couldn’t bring herself to say how he had molested her. ‘He killed McNeil,’ she added quietly.
Moments of silence followed with Johnson staring at Potter imploringly and him unsure how to continue without completely destroying what was left of their relationship.
He doubted Johnson would forgive him for what he was about to say but he knew it was the right thing to do. He would not allow her to be put in harm’s way again and risk another officer dying. ‘This case is about more than just you and PC McNeil.’
Johnson slumped back into the chair, wounded. She thought the pain she had experienced was as bad as it could get but this was somehow worse. It was one thing to believe she was too emotionally involved to lead on this, but to have the one man she looked up to be so dismissive about what had happened, hurt more than anything she could imagine. She didn’t want to talk to him anymore; she couldn’t even bring herself to look at him. But to leave now would mean going back to her pointless case and allowing this huge injustice to go unanswered. She would go above his head, say whatever it took to get rid of him and then she could focus on what needed to be done; catching that bastard. She could say he made an inappropriate advance towards her. That was it, she could say he took advantage of her when she came out of hospital. She could say he touched her in the car whilst she was still only wearing the hospital gown, and that he had booked the hotel, so he could come around and have sex with her whilst she was in a vulnerable state.
But she knew she couldn’t say any of it. Much as she hated Potter at that very moment, she wouldn’t destroy him like this. She didn’t know why he was being so cruel to her, but she wouldn’t allow her actions to undermine all those women who were battling against genuine sexual harassment. Much as she knew she could be as convincing as necessary, especially in the current climate of Time’s Up and the scandals that had rocked the media industry, she couldn’t live with herself if she became just as bad as those scumbags who used their position of power to prey on women.
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