Whatever it takes. Those haunting words causing her to question whether she was allowing her sense of right and wrong to deflect her from her true moral responsibility. But there was another way.
‘I can’t do this anymore,’ she said quietly, tears streaming down her face. Potter got up and walked round the desk. His arms opened as though he was going to try and comfort her, but he hesitated. Johnson wondered for a moment whether he suspected what she had been contemplating doing.
‘I understand,’ he said, awkwardly folding them. ‘More than you can appreciate.’
‘I need to get out of here.’ She still couldn’t bring herself to look at Potter directly.
‘Of course, of course,’ the relief in his voice was sickening. ‘Take as long as you need.’
‘You mentioned holidays I’ve accrued.’
‘Yes, absolutely. I’ll sign them off. No one need know you’re not fit for duty. Don’t worry about that other case, I’ll put someone else on it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘By the time you’re ready to come back we’ll have Brandt and we can all try and put this behind us.’
She shook her head but managed to stop herself challenging the hope with which he had delivered those last few words. It wasn’t so much the, almost flippant, suggestion that she might excuse the things he had said to her today, but the belief that they would just simply move on from McNeil’s death.
Twice in two days she had to march across the CID area in a vain attempt to hide her bitter emotions. How could she be expected to lead the team again in the future when they had seen her like this? As she reached the duty area, she wanted to thank Andrews for showing her the kind of compassion that had escaped her colleagues upstairs, but his sympathetic nod in her direction told her nothing needed to be said. Relieved that it helped speed her departure, she didn’t then stop to light a cigarette as she entered the car park, choosing instead to break her rule about smoking in the Audi.
As she waited for the security gate’s slow progress in opening, she couldn’t help but wonder when she would next see the inside of Nottingham Central Police Station. But that didn’t matter; nothing did, except for the one thing she must do. Whatever it takes.
Chapter Sixteen
Brandt felt better than he had at any moment since leaving England. Actually, that wasn’t true, sat in the back of the car whilst Franklin blew his head off had been pretty special, but this was a longer lasting thrill. Sitting on his balcony allowing the early morning rays of sunshine to warm his face, he tried to imagine the flurry of activity that would have greeted his email. He wondered whether the Belgian authorities had informed their contacts in the UK police before following up the message’s claim of knowing the whereabouts of Franklin’s car. Brandt had been careful not to display too much knowledge of what had been seen by the phantom emailer, but just enough that they would realise which vehicle was being referred to. He had needed to keep it simple anyway because he was relying on an online translator to convert it into convincing French.
Buoyed by this, and in the knowledge that it would be a few hours yet until anything made it onto the news sites, he headed into town. Brandt made an instant judgement on his arrival in Benidorm, no doubt not helped by tiredness, that he didn’t like it very much and had limited his time in public to running necessary errands; convincing himself that he needed to lay low. Now that his appearance was as altered as he was likely to manage without cosmetic surgery, it seemed time to establish whether he could find something of a life for himself there.
That it was fairly quiet in the Old Town, the more cosmopolitan area that was less attractive to the beer-swilling holiday makers, reminded him of Rudyard Kipling’s phrase about it only being mad dogs and Englishmen who went out in the midday sun. Kipling may have been referring to India but with the early summer temperatures well into the 30s, Brandt could see the parallels. Not that he didn’t like the heat; he and his wife had gone to a number of tropical destinations in the early part of their marriage. She used to like lying on a sun lounger reading a trashy romance novel whereas Brandt, who found it hard to relax, would go off exploring.
With memories of the good times prominent in Brandt’s mind, he made his way through the tight streets and down to the Mal Pas Beach. Without the shade provided by the various buildings, the sweat was beginning to pour off him and the lure of the blue Mediterranean Sea was too strong. He hadn’t brought any swimming trunks but figured that his underpants were respectable enough and, leaving the rest of his clothes in a heap just out of the water’s reach, he waded in. The coolness of it was a pleasant shock to his system, especially once it reached his midriff, but nothing like the chill he had experienced venturing into British waters when on holiday as a child.
Happy memories once again and, after a while splashing around, Brandt started to feel hungry. It had been an expensive first few days in Benidorm, having bought himself the essentials for the villa, along with his laptop. However, he had calculated that his money should now last him a good number of months before he needed to find some form of employment. He guessed he would end up with bar work but the idea of having to remain sober whilst surrounded by all that alcohol didn’t really appeal. He figured that if he learnt the basics of Spanish, he could maybe even do some mini-cabbing. Much as he didn’t like the working-class Brits, ferrying them to and from the characterless bars would be better than having to serve them their €2 pints and shots of sambuca all evening.
Despite his growing appetite, Brandt waited on the beach for his pants to dry sufficiently for him to put on his clothes. He was going to sit on one of the sun loungers when he noticed the sign advertising the cost. Another day, when he was better kitted out, he may spend some time down here, but the lure of a late lunch was proving too strong. He did stay a little longer though, and could overhear snippets of conversations confirming the Spanish tended to favour this over the Levante Beach preferred by the Brits, attached to the New Town. Looking around, he found that many of the women were sunbathing topless. Moving to the back of the beach so he could observe them from behind the relative safety offered by his dark glasses, whilst appearing to just be looking out to sea, he could feel himself beginning to become aroused. It did not matter to him that many of the pairs of breasts on show belonged to older women and, subjectively, were not that attractive; it was the voyeuristic act itself that was giving him a thrill.
He found himself thinking back to DCI Johnson’s house. Until now his recollections of that evening had surrounded all the things that had gone wrong, but there had been a few minutes of genuine pleasure. He remembered quickly dragging her inside and shutting the front door. With her lying unconscious in the hallway, and without that icy intense stare that had so disturbed him whenever he had seen her on television, he was fully able to appreciate her beauty. She was older than his other female victims but could see that maturity suited her and guessed she had grown more attractive during her adult life.
He had known that he should tie her up as quickly as possible before she woke but, having removed her bra, he sat her up, so he could observe her breasts in their most natural state. They had been perfect; sizeable enough but pert and with inviting round, pink nipples. At that moment he had wanted nothing more than to pull down her knickers and be inside her, but he knew she needed to be conscious for that act. It wasn’t so much that he had wanted to feel the movement of her body, as he had done with the girl in St. Albans, he needed her to know that her malicious claims of homosexuality were false. Whilst tying her up he had realised that all the anger and hatred had melted away and it was with regret that he knew he had to kill her. He couldn’t allow compassion to get in the way of business, but he had planned to make her death as quick and relatively painless as possible.
And yet things had changed when she opened her eyes. The initial look of horror had been as welcomed as it was expected, but then came the defiance. He could feel his power slipping away with every passing moment and every word she spoke about know
ing who he was and what he had done in St. Albans. He had managed to ride it out and focus on the physicality of their situation. He had planned on speaking to her longer; having her accept the necessity of what was going to happen. Instead he climbed on top of her knowing at that point that killing her would be easy, but he would only do that once he had fully satisfied himself.
But he hadn’t.
That nosey little cunt had disturbed them, no doubt hoping for his own little fumble that evening. He was pleased he was dead and only wished he had been in the same room to witness him bleed out like a stuck pig.
As Brandt continued to regard those Spanish breasts on a beach far from Nottingham, he no longer felt aroused. None of them were as good as Johnson’s and, even if they were, just sitting there looking at them was nothing compared to what he would have, should have, done to her. As he got up and trudged off towards the new town in search of his cheap all-day breakfast, he knew at that point that he would not be able to settle in his new home until he was compensated for his loss.
Chapter Seventeen
Johnson could feel a calmness descend as she drove to the Channel Tunnel. It wasn’t just that she had put Potter and all his bullshit behind her, she felt she was on the right trail. Although determined to see Franklin’s note in order to evaluate its full contents, she had gained enough of an understanding to know that the police believed it to confirm that Brandt was still in England. Yet she knew differently. Every ounce of the intuition she had honed over her career was telling her she was following his tracks. For the first time since that awful night she had a singularity of purpose. For now, she could lock away the pain that was inside her and focus on the thing she could change. Potter and his lap-dog DI Fisher were conspiring to fuck up their chances of catching the real criminal and she was the only one who could stop that from happening. She would find Brandt and bring him to justice. Whatever it takes.
The serenity that had escaped her when believing she was doing the right thing by following Potter’s menial detective work in St Ann’s, allowed her to sleep during the short train ride to Calais. Little did she know that her quarry had done the same but, as she was awoken by the swinging back of the huge internal doors, she felt refreshed and ready for the remainder of her journey. She hadn’t been told the exact location of where Franklin’s car had been discovered but there was only one major lake near Ghent and, besides, it was no doubt now in whatever compound the police there used.
Johnson had been academically able at school and her mother had been desperate for her to be the first in their family to go to university. When she learned of her desire to enter the police force she had begged her to wait until she could join as a graduate. But much as Johnson enjoyed the success that exams had brought her, she equally knew she possessed the talent to rise through the ranks just as fast if she had a three-year head start. With her 18th birthday falling early in the academic year she was still studying for her A Levels, she made her application and began her training as soon as she could after sitting her final paper. So focused was she on her new job that she didn’t even go back into school to collect her results, which were two As and a B in Biology, Psychology and French respectively. And it was her knowledge in that latter subject that she would draw on, all these years later, to ensure she would get the information she required. She doubted that the Belgian authorities, upon seeing her warrant card, would seek to check that she had been sent over from Britain, but her experiences abroad had taught her that at least attempting to converse in the native language went a long way towards establishing an effective relationship.
As her Audi sped through the dull landscape of northern France, she began to piece together what she knew about the men she was tracking. She had taken an instant dislike to Franklin when she’d met him at the press conference following the murder in Milton Keynes. His misogynistic behaviour had played second fiddle to his narcissism. She could see how his obvious pleasure at being there would be seen by some as indicating that he may have had something to do with what had happened. But Johnson knew better. If she were in his position, she would be doing everything to hide her actions rather than demonstrate a distinct lack of professionalism. Beyond that, there was little else she had managed to find out about him in those dark days that she’d spent in the hotel room trying to distract herself from thinking about McNeil. Franklin was never shy of providing a quote for the papers, but he had worked on few investigations that had brought about more than local attention.
Brandt, however, was entirely different. From what she could tell, he shunned the limelight and that was in spite of him having cracked a number of high profile and complex cases. Much as she hated the man who had stripped and abused her, she had to concede that he was a more than able detective. It did cause her to wonder why he had never risen beyond the post of DSI especially because, from what she imagined, any one of those successes should have put him in prime position for promotion. She didn’t like to consider the fact that he may not have wanted to join the top brass because that would be too similar to her own view on career progression.
Her conclusion from all this was that it didn’t make sense for Franklin to be the ringleader. She knew that her view was skewed by the fact that it was Brandt himself that had attacked her, and urged herself to remain open minded until she saw all the evidence, but this was her feeling nonetheless.
* * *
Whilst Johnson snored peacefully in her Belgian hotel room, Brandt was sat on his balcony having eventually given up on his own vain attempt to rest. The seed that had been planted on his earlier trip to the beach had germinated and was now taking root. He would kill again. As he had worked his way through the cheap, fried produce of his lunch he had attempted to resolve that it was time to put murder behind him. No longer trying to fulfil a greater purpose, he wasn’t able to convince himself that the enjoyment he had derived from his actions had been a mere fortunate by-product. But as the afternoon had worn on, he found more and more ways to justify his urge. Even if it wouldn’t serve to put the experience with Johnson behind him, it would give him the satisfaction of knowing that, as well as being unable to catch him, they couldn’t stop him. More than that, it would give his life meaning once more. Without this he knew that, stuck in this town, his suicidal thoughts would return and the last thing he wanted to do was give them the satisfaction of finding his body washed up, with him having scaled the hill at the far side of the new town and plunged onto the rocks below. For them to believe that he had been unable to live with the guilt of his actions would be to sully the work he had done. So, he would kill, and he would keep on killing. He would manage the risk posed by limiting himself to the area in which he resided and using variety to cover his tracks. He knew that eventually the connection between the deaths would be established but, unlike before, he would work to delay that.
Content in the knowledge that the next phase of his new career would start tomorrow, Brandt headed back to bed and quickly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Chapter Eighteen
Gaining the information she required was as easy as Johnson had hoped. She waited until 10am, taking a leisurely breakfast at the hotel. Although it meant more carbohydrates in the form of various pastries, given the length of time since her last decent meal, she worked her way through a number of them, washed down by plenty of excellent strong black coffee. Not only had she been correct about which police station to go to, but the officers had been very helpful there, once it had been established that it would be better for them to speak English than for her to resurrect her rusty French. It turned out that Ghent’s port attracted a number of migrant workers and they were used to incidents where they were required to share information with other countries’ forces. This gave cause for Johnson to work quickly, given there was every chance a real representative could arrive from England. She didn’t mind that it may lead to problems for her when she returned home, as long as it didn’t disrupt her investigation now.
&n
bsp; They approached things chronologically and started by showing her the email, which she was able to decipher with relative ease. They then moved on to the paper retrieved from the car’s glovebox. Johnson thought there was a good chance that, when the handwriting analysis was completed by Thames Valley, it would come back as Brandt’s. She could also see why her own CID had bought into its claim that Franklin had staged the whole thing and that Brandt was a pawn in his game. Johnson was particularly impressed by how it discussed how Franklin had used leverage against Brandt but without going into specifics. If she were in a similar position to Brandt’s she wouldn’t want to over-egg the pudding by spending too much time talking about him. If guilt had driven Franklin to suicide, then surely it would be more about his dead victims than the man he had somehow coerced into assisting him. But whilst Brandt had been careful to suitably limit the discussion of his apparent innocence, he had failed to get Franklin to show enough of this remorse.
And this led on to the other key reason why Johnson believed it to be a work of fiction: that critical omission aside, it was too perfect. Not only was it too well written for someone who would have been in such emotional torment, but also the circumstances of it fundamentally didn’t make sense. Johnson more than anyone could attest to the distance Franklin had managed to flee. Having achieved that, rather than top yourself back home, it would take some catastrophic psychological breakdown for you to end it by the edge of a lake in the middle of Belgium. But the note spoke of someone lucid and rational.
Study of the car and the body yielded no further clues, much less support for Johnson’s theory that this had been the work of Brandt. The effects of sitting at the bottom of the lake for over a week was making the forensics’ job a nightmare. The water was too warm for the formation of adipocere; the waxy, soapy substance that comes from fat in the body and serves to protect against decomposition. But the key damage came from the lake’s wildlife. Judging by the flesh that had been removed, it must be home to some fairly large fish; ending Johnson’s hopes of finding any signs that Franklin had been either bound or beaten.
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