by A D Davies
Ball shrugged, glanced at Cleaver. Cleaver shrugged.
“Two years ago, a gang of British and Italians got together and they swiped a young man off the streets of Rome where he was holidaying. The young man—can’t tell you his name; it’s confidential—was the son of an oil baron. The policia called in Interpol, who called us because the oil baron was British.”
“Which oil baron?” Ball said.
“Still as confidential as it was four seconds ago. But he owns a portion of Russia the size of Yorkshire. Anyway, he pays the twenty million euros with help from ourselves and Interpol.”
“No Eyeties?”
“No. We’re racists, Sergeant Ball, and believe Italians are all corrupt.” She winked. “They played a monitoring roll, but with the threat of the oil baron suing their cute arses, they weren’t keen on handling it alone. The commandatore was a jolly nice man by the way. I still get birthday cards from him.”
Murphy coughed.
Oh, right.
She continued. “But the gang got greedy. They decided to go for more cash. While the Italians bargained with them, we ran the investigation. But we suspected they were holed up somewhere in the hills. For a month, Interpol and ourselves negotiated with the gang. In the end, they simply left the lad where he was being held, buggered off with the cash, and we got a phone call telling us where to pick him up.”
“Where was he?”
“A penthouse apartment in the centre of Rome. Had a lovely view of the Colosseum and everything. In the debriefing, he said the kidnappers didn’t harm him. They fed him well, they’d even go out drinking while one stayed guard, took it in turns. Having a great time, they were. When we asked why they gave up, I was expecting him to say the pressure got too much. But no.”
“It wasn’t the pressure?” Ball said.
“You weren’t getting too close?” Cleaver said.
“No.” Alicia placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “Forty-nine days after kidnapping the son of a billionaire—who would probably have shelled out a further twenty million—with all that cash at stake, they gave up because they were bored.”
“Bored?” Cleaver screwed up his face.
She stood shoulder to elbow with Murphy. “After a month and a half.”
Ball gave an admiring whistle. “And our lad holds ’em eighteen months at a time. That’s staying power for you.”
Alicia let the dust settle, knowing that despite Ball’s quip he and Cleaver were contemplating the man they sought.
“We all need to do our bit, gents,” Alicia said.
Murphy said, “One of us will visit Tanya’s circle of friends, and ascertain whether or not the tattoo was Tanya’s. Fingerprint analysis will be twelve hours due to the double murder up at Eccup getting top billing.”
“Aw, come on, this is way more urgent,” Ball said. “We’ve got a live one out there.”
Alicia smiled at the newfound urgency in Ball. “They landed with their body first. It’s like a polite queue.”
“You’ve something of a night ahead,” Murphy said. “And I know I cut your sleep short for this, so hit the sack for a couple of hours if you need it. Then hit the Yellow Pages. Or the humming box. Your choice.”
Ball turned to Cleaver. “I can cope without a nap. You?”
“Sure,” Cleaver replied with a shrug.
“Let your fingers do the walking,” Alicia said, then turned smartly on one foot so her ponytail swung out, and she and Murphy left the room. Although happy with the change in attitude, she wished she was canvassing the streets instead. What was to occur next, she was not looking forward to at all.
Alicia had never properly faced the press before, mainly because she couldn’t be herself in front of the cameras. The bubbly personality for which everyone commended her would sit behind the façade of a ball-breaking woman officer who’d do-anything-to-get-the-job-done. But she wasn’t Tennison or that one played by Gillian Anderson who she liked. Alicia Friend was Alicia Friend. And if she couldn’t be Alicia Friend, then she’d be the quiet one at the end of the desk. It was her one concession to politics—shutting up for the good of a case.
The only reason they were going public was the similarities between Pippa’s death and Tanya’s, and the fear someone might connect them before the police announced it. But not Hayley’s yet; the details of her death were still under lock and key, and nobody wanted the killer knowing they had connected Hayley too. That would endanger Katie further.
But a local hack would pick up on a high-profile murder like Tanya Windsor. Tanya was a story and a half. Or would be once identity was confirmed. Society girl goes missing so long ago, is now dead. Alicia could only picture the scene when a pair of specially-trained officers gave Tanya’s uncle the news. Grief first. Then would come anger. Anger at the police for assuming she was already dead. If a man with Henry Windsor’s connections wanted blood, blood is what he would receive.
The table was laid out like on Crimewatch. Microphones for each of the six chairs, and a tiny room full of reporters from each field of the media. Four of those six seats were filled: Detective Chief Inspector Streeter—Murphy’s direct superior—in full dress uniform, his hair grey and probably styled for the occasion; Anne Leader, head of public relations for West Yorkshire Police; Daphne Wilson, press officer for CID, retiring shortly; and, the one person Alicia knew—Chief Superintendent Graham Rhapshaw, also in uniform. Alicia’s boss, as well as her friend. He was also the senior officer in charge of DCI Wellington’s original investigation, so it would be his blood to be spilled should Henry Windsor choose.
The middle two seats, the main focus of the room, were vacant, gaping and ready for Murphy and Alicia.
Oh. Dear.
Murphy pulled the seat for her. It scraped on the floor.
A vague whisper travelled the room. A couple of coughs. So many eyes upon her.
She lowered herself to the seat, a dark plastic one, instantly too hot for her bum, and too hard.
Murphy sat beside her and undid his jacket to prevent bunching.
DCI Streeter coughed loudly, took a final sip of water, and addressed the ladies and gentlemen of the press. “Okay, we all know why we’re here. This is Detective Inspector Donald Murphy and Detective Sergeant Alicia Friend—”
The first interruption, a newspaper man: “Did you say ‘Friend’? As in F-R-I-E-N-D?”
Alicia met the journalist’s eye and was about to say something when—
“That’s correct,” Streeter said, irritated. “May I proceed?”
“Sorry.”
“Thank you. DI Murphy will read a statement and there will be a short time for questions. DI Murphy?”
Murphy raised the specially-prepared report, a Daphne Wilson and Anne Leader collaboration, and scanned it through. “Right,” he said, still reading. He wasted ten precious seconds courtesy of a sip of water. “At approximately two p.m. today, a man was reported carrying a large package across wasteland adjacent to Evergreen Industrial Estate. He dropped the package on a disused railway line and retreated back across the waste ground where he fled out of sight. A witness investigated, and found the body of a young woman wrapped in black bin liners.”
Hands went up, but Streeter stared them down.
“The police were called and we are currently investigating a possible…” He squinted here, shot a harsh look at Streeter, who nodded for him to continue. “We are investigating a link between this murder and that of Pippa Bradshaw. Both murders were violent and non-sexual. The second victim has not yet been officially identified so we cannot release further details at this time.”
Bulbs flashed throughout, pens scribbled, recording devices were mumbled into. Alicia’s eyes swam with shapes and colours, like airborne fish and worms. She’d have enjoyed the experience under different circumstances.
The first question: “Helen Johnson, Yorkshire Evening Post. Do you believe this to be the work of one man?”
“As opposed to a gang?” Murphy said.
He’s good at this, Alicia thought. He’s done it before.
“Yes,” Murphy continued. “A very strong man has taken at least two young women from public places, and murdered them for reasons unknown.”
The first journo again: “At least two? So it’s possible there’s a serial killer loose in Yorkshire?”
Murmurs again, louder this time. Excited. At least four journalists began texting. Alicia imagined a small Victorian boy in flat cap and britches receiving a message in a loud print room, the latest iPhone vibrating against his leg, the boy reading the message, eyes agog, and then—for some reason he had a high-pitched cockney accent—yelling to the supervisor, “Guv’nor! Guv’nor! Stop the presses. Stop the presses!”
Something jabbed her arm. Murphy. Nudging her.
Rhapshaw said, “Alicia? The gentleman asked a question.”
“Hmm?” She scanned the room and noticed a man standing.
“Robert Clancy,” he said. “The Sentinel.”
Uh-oh. The Sentinel was the latest red-top tabloid to enter the fray of sensationalist journalism; like The Sun but with even more salacious lies about celebrities, angrier vitriol against immigrants and the poor.
He said, “Are you okay, Sergeant Friend? Can you answer my question?”
“Easy, Robert,” Streeter warned.
“Thank you, Robert,” Alicia said, her mini-computer working up a sweat. “I apologise. I was in my own little world for a second.”
No, she thought. Ball-breaker. Ass-kicker.
“And what little world might that be, Ms. Friend?”
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Victorian London.”
The reporter began to jot this down then stopped as mild laughter rolled through the crowd. “I’m sorry?”
“Detective Sergeant Friend,” Rhapshaw said pleasantly. “Robert was asking how likely it is that this man is a serial killer in the vein of the Yorkshire Ripper, and the possibility that he is perhaps imitating Peter Sutcliffe’s crimes.”
“Oh. Right. Well, the possibility is there, of course, but it’s too early to tell his motive. I’ve only dealt with serial crimes three or four times before—”
“Which is it?”
“Sorry?” She did that daft leaning forward thing, presenting her ear more prominently.
“Is it three times,” Robert Clancy asked, “or four? You must know.”
“Four,” she said confidently. “Three murders and a rapist.”
“Funny. I don’t remember three serial killers over, what, the last four years. You can’t have been in the job that long. What are you? Twenty-five?”
It was Rhapshaw’s turn to engage with Robert Clancy. “Careful, Robert. Alicia’s a proven officer. Show her some respect.”
“Sir, I’m only concerned that this girl is not in tune enough for a case of this magnitude.”
Girl…?
“Our readers want to know—and I’m sure the tragic victims’ parents want to know—that the officers running the case are competent. If Sergeant Friend cannot even recall her most important cases—”
“Robert,” Alicia said. “May I call you Robert? I joined the Force eleven years ago. I’m thirty-two. My birthday is the fifteenth of July. If you’d like to remember it, all presents are gratefully received.”
Another ripple of smirks, this time on Alicia’s side rather than at her expense.
“I completed a psychology degree with first class honours when I was twenty and went on to do a masters. But then, rather than do a PhD, I did another masters, this time in criminology. I specialised in serial crimes. Within two years of joining the Force, I was transferred to the Serious Crime Agency, where I have an excellent pass rate.”
She cringed at the term “pass rate”. Why couldn’t she have said “track record?” Damn.
“The four crimes you’re asking about are as follows: in Lincoln, two women were found dead in a house that was abandoned six months earlier. The former resident, Mr. Gunther Ramelow, used the house when here on business. He was living it up back in Germany when the polizei broke down his door following my analysis of sixteen crimes in cities across Europe where Mr. Ramelow had business dealings.”
Robert smiled. “So the European Union’s open borders allowed a serial killer to operate freely?”
Nice angle, Alicia thought. For a newspaper that trades on fear and loathing. She was shaking, blushing, but under the lights she hoped it blanched out. She heard Roberta’s voice in her head: Calm down, girl.
“Second was a gun for hire. ‘Bad’ Johnny Makepeace liked to torture his targets—”
“Alicia,” Murphy said, a hand on her arm. “I think the gentleman has enough to be going on with for now.”
Robert Clancy saluted facetiously. “Thank you. But the original question stands.”
Alicia took a steady sip of water. No shaking. “Two murders of similar M.O. are not enough to say this man is another Yorkshire Ripper.”
“I think someone else deserves a question now,” Rhapshaw said. “I see a few hands.”
“Just one more,” Robert said. “Then I’ll leave you alone.”
“Okay,” Alicia said. “Shoot.”
“You say ‘him’ all the time. How do you know it’s not a woman?”
“In the last decade I can count on one hand the number of female serial killers identified. Plus it’s easier to talk in terms of men. I say ‘he’ because ‘he-slash-she’ is an awful mouthful, and ‘they’ is grammatically incorrect.”
“Do you hate men, DS Friend?”
“That’s enough!” Rhapshaw bellowed.
Robert Clancy sat down, grinning.
The rest of the questions were mundane, mostly how long until they’d know the victim’s identity, had the family been informed, what was next. No one mentioned Hayley Davenport or Katie Hague, but it was only a matter of time. Alicia dearly hoped they’d focus on the body in the pipe, at least until they needed public support. There was no way she was doing another one of these.
The trouble was, the next task on her to-do list was even less pleasant.
Chapter Twelve
Katie Hague was naked. Warm, in a ceramic bath full of soapy water. The spotlight was on and she washed herself with what would have been, under different circumstances, jolly nice cosmetic soaps. The water was now blood as much as suds. Her inhaler worked not long ago, but it was running low. When she asked the man about it, he ignored her.
If he wanted her to remain alive, he needed to help her soon.
For now, her tears all cried out, Katie chose instead to plan. That girl, the one he called Rachel, she had him believing she loved him, truly loved him, right up until the final moments when she was about to die, when she cursed him with language more ferocious than Katie had heard before.
Now Rachel’s blood floated, diluted in the bathtub.
Katie scrubbed more shampoo into her hair, all too aware of the streaks that had splattered her as that final barrage broke through Rachel’s skull. She’d read somewhere, or maybe her father told her, that there were thousands of veins in the head which cool the brain, our most energy-hungry organ. That’s why it bleeds so much when you hit it. And Rachel had bled. All over the floor and over Katie and over the cackling freak who, when it was all over, hosed the place down as casually as washing a car. Then he ran a bath from the same hose, added a dollop of Stress-Relief Radox. “To help you relax,” he said. He told her how he was proud of her, how Rachel wasn’t worthy any more.
Katie tried to lose herself in the water, but the soap and the scrubbing brush would not cleanse the blood from under her nails. They would not wipe the sticky sensation from her skin even though it appeared clean under the light.
“I think you are done,” the man said. “Stand up. Get out of the tub.”
Katie cared nothing about her nakedness. She deserved this. She stood, dripping beside the bath, while the man put the hose on a warm, gentle jet, rinsing her of suds and the
final red smears. She remained there, hands by her side, not bothering to cover herself.
Once the hose stopped, she sensed him there, looking at her. Then a large soft towel landed in her arms.
“Please dry yourself and get dressed.”
Her clothes lay on the chair, laundered, fresh-smelling. She patted herself dry over the cuts, and rubbed herself where it didn’t hurt. She tried to push it all down, the memories of what happened, save it as anger and fury to be unleashed upon her captor—her jailer—at the right time.
Once dry, she dressed slowly, carefully, for the floor was still wet.
She could never forget today, certainly not while Rachel’s blood clogged her fingernails, the coppery tang of it in her nostrils. No, she could never forget, not while the horrible thrill of killing a fellow human being still coursed like electricity through her bones.
The man stepped into the spotlight behind her, placed his hands lovingly on her shoulders, his lips brushing the nape of her neck. He breathed words at her. “Oh, Rachel. Rachel. My dearest girl. You are my First now. I shall bring another Second.”
Chapter Thirteen
Doyle’s Art Emporium was a dump. Even Doyle knew it. And Sergeants Cleaver and Ball definitely knew it. But shit, Doyle didn’t care what they thought. He wanted them out of there. The only reason he remained open was a client booking in half an hour, a first-timer who wanted a tattoo to impress his new girlfriend. First timers were great. They had no idea what went on in here, and Doyle could charge pretty much what he liked.
“Nice place,” the one with the beard said. Sergeant Ball. He carried a manila file and a handheld radio.
“No it isn’t,” Doyle said. “But it’s clean. It’s hygienic. It meets minimum standard, and then some.”
The Emporium was a room and a bathroom above a comic book shop, and faced a street full of mostly Asian-owned businesses; grocery, newsagents, clothing. Doyle himself didn’t like Asians particularly, always jabbering about God-knows-what, but since no one wanted to live near them their proximity kept the rent cheap. He was always outwardly friendly, though, especially with Mr. Shah from whom he negotiated a discount due to the amount of Rizlas he bought in the man’s shop. And he didn’t hate them (he never considered himself an active racist), but he was uncomfortable around them.