Lethal Intent (DI Matt Barnes Book 2)

by Michael Kerr

  Striving to make sense of his own personal existence in the scheme of things, he eventually fell asleep. He did not dream.

  He awoke feeling bright as a new pin, with no thought of anything other than it being Christmas Day. Nothing was going to spoil it. He unplugged the tree and took it through to the living room, to set up on top of the sideboard. It was almost seven o’clock, but still dark outside. He went into the kitchen, switched on the kettle and then the TV to watch the early news.

  The talking head was Welsh. Funny how the accent annoyed him. Why didn’t they stay in their fucking valleys, sing in choirs and shag sheep. “There’s tasty for you,” he said in his best Richard Burtonese, then gave the bulletin his undivided attention, hanging onto every word as Lionel Garrick’s name was mentioned. Oh God, this was pure bliss. What he had done was breaking news, and would probably...no, most definitely make the headlines in every newspaper. He was famous through his actions. What he did was major league, not lightweight shit. This hit home where it counted, at the very heart of the system; the law of the land, which he had in the palm of his hand and was making a mockery of.

  No juicy details, yet. Just a picture of the now late QC looking composed and imperious, which was a far cry from how he had left him, with his face removed and guts trailing down to the carpet. All the simpering Welsh dummy said was, that the renowned barrister and his housekeeper had been brutally slain by an unknown assailant.

  He would have to watch for updates. Maybe Barnes would now know just what he was up against. The cop had obviously been expecting Dennis Marshall to get the same run-around as Preston had. This killing would show the slow-witted detective that he could not predict where, when or who he would strike next. They had mentioned that a psychologist was consulting. That was a mistake. If they thought he would follow patterns, or was a serial killer, then they wouldn’t get past GO, or collect two hundred quid. He would back off for a while and let the dust settle. They would panic now, protect the other jurors and their families, and the judge who had passed sentence at the trial. But that wouldn’t stop him. He was too smart for them. To use a metaphor; just when they thought it was safe to go back in the water, he would rise up like a great white shark and grab them by the balls. He, like Jaws, was a top predator, and would take his prey whenever hunger drove him to, but with his own personal safety of paramount importance. He could not be lured in.

  He made a pot of tea, then went to shave and splash lime-scented after shave lotion on his now smooth cheeks. He dressed in a blue chambray shirt, cream chinos and beige kidskin loafers, before going outside to unchain Hannibal and let him do his business and then come into the house.

  Kirstie was in for a treat. She would be allowed upstairs, and be on trust for a few hours. He thought that Hannibal’s presence would be enough to ensure that she be on her best behaviour. It was a test. She would be full of resentment, even hate for him, but would, as most women can, mask her true feelings. He considered her a femme fatale, and potentially dangerous. That was understandable. To be taken away from her loved ones and incarcerated in a cellar did not promote congeniality. Only time would facilitate a reversal of attitude. She would come to love him, before he slit her arteries and held her in his embrace as she painlessly made the ultimate transition.

  Damn! The Volvo. He had forgotten all about it. There was no risk, and yet he knew he would not relax until it was dealt with. He enjoyed a cup of tea, then put on a loose navy boiler suit to protect his clothes, and swapped the loafers for Engineers’ boots.

  Outside, he checked the sky. It was a disappointing wash of clear blue. It would not snow. He wished he lived where Christmases were guaranteed to be white. Next year he would spend the holiday in Lapland, Norway, Switzerland, or some place that looked the part. Where expectations could be realised.

  He opened the Volvo’s windows, passed the heavy chains through and hooked them up to the crane’s cable. Within minutes he had lowered the vehicle into the crusher, released the chains and hit the button to initiate the process. He never tired of watching and listening to glass shattering and metal screeching as it was being reshaped in mindless protestation.

  Back inside, with Hannibal roaming throughout the house sniffing at everything and wagging his tail, pleased to be in out of the cold and free from constraint, he poured a fresh mug of tea and took it down to the cellar.

  “Sit,” he said to Hannibal, after looking through the peephole to be sure that Kirstie was on the bed, before opening the door. The dog instantly obeyed the command. It had been trained well, and knew that even a second’s hesitation invited severe pain.

  She was awake, sitting up, and had cloaked herself in the blanket against the dampness and cold, with only her face visible. He thought that she looked like an Indian squaw.

  He heard a sharp intake of breath. She had seen Hannibal and was justifiably apprehensive. The dog’s life experience of cruelty had fashioned it into a highly strung and vicious brute.

  He went to her, sat down next to her and held out the steaming mug. “Here, drink this,” he said. “It’ll warm you up.”

  Releasing her grip on the blanket, Kirstie reached out with both hands, took the mug and sipped the hot, sweet tea.

  “It’s Christmas Day,” he said, leaning closer, putting his arm around her shoulders and kissing her on the cheek. “I want us to enjoy it, together.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Was he a fucking imbecile? Did he really expect her to be able to enjoy being held a prisoner, fearing for her life and missing Faye and Dennis so much? She raised her eyes to look at him. He smiled, and she saw loneliness and vulnerability in his expression. He was not immune to human emotion. Basically, he was hurting, needing to react against a world he blamed for all his woes. Surely it was possible to cater to the side of him that was almost crying out for self-esteem and...and yes, love. She needed to diffuse any antagonism he felt. To ostensibly turn against Dennis and all this damaged man’s perceived enemies would be an unprecedented challenge. But if she were to have a chance, then it would have to be done.

  One small gesture inflated his ego to bursting point. She did not speak, but leaned forward and put her head on his shoulder. He knew that she was quietly crying. Could feel the slight hitching of her body. Warmth! He felt a flood of warmth. Was she trying to play some mind game? Or had his impassioned lovemaking and a few days to reflect on her life brought about a change of values?

  Taking the mug from her, he set it down on the floor and removed the blanket. She wore a T-shirt and sweatpants. He gently manoeuvred her onto her stomach, then pulled the pants down all the way to her feet and discarded them. God, she was a beautiful woman; his woman. He bobbed his head to kiss her beguiling buttocks, then straddled her, undid the button at the front of his chinos and opened the zip fly. Yes! She responded, raising herself up in submission.

  Kirstie was able to almost ignore the fullness that invaded her. Her only thought was of Faye’s smiling, freckled face, as she engaged actively as a moving sleeve; a machine part for the piston that powered up and down within her. And as she felt him release, she cried out, then gritted her teeth and waited for him to withdraw. She twisted beneath him, clung to him, found his mouth with her own, and slowly pushed her tongue between his lips. He moaned, embraced her, and pulled her up against him. His heart was pounding against her breast. She was hoping that her actions would infatuate him with her to such an extent that she would become indispensable. She wanted him to need her, or even love her, if he had the capacity to.

  “Do you want to come upstairs and help me cook a meal?” he said.

  She smiled.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said.

  “What about your furry friend? Will he take another bite out of me?”

  “Not unless you do something to upset him, or me.”

  Kneeling down, he unlocked the manacle and gently massaged her slightly bruised ankle. She looked over his shoulder and saw that Hannibal’s ears were a
lmost flat to its massive head, and its haunches quivered. It wanted to attack her.

  They went up into the living room. She was surprised. A flames from a coal fire bathed the room in a warm glow. The curtains were closed at the windows, keeping the weak winter light at bay. And a small Christmas tree sparkled like a star-filled night.

  Paul took a brocade-patterned cushion from the settee. “Watch and learn, Kirstie,” he said, throwing it onto the carpet, clicking his fingers and pointing at it.

  Hannibal pounced and ripped the cushion apart, reducing it to a mass of shredded fragments within seconds.

  “Good boy,” Paul said. “Leave.”

  The panting dog backed away from the chewed material and chunks of polyester filling, its tongue lolling from the side of its slobbering mouth.

  “I thought you should know that his bite is much worse than his bark,” Paul said. “I don’t trust anyone who can fake an orgasm that well.”

  “What makes you think I was faking?” Kirstie said.

  “Because I think you love your husband and daughter.”

  “That has nothing to do with my enjoying sex with you. I’m your prisoner, without any choice in the matter. That negates any guilt or shame on my part. It’s like having an illicit affair, but without the risk of being caught out. I’m a victim, so what the hell. Why shouldn’t I enjoy being made love to by a fit and attractive younger man?”

  Paul wanted to believe what she said. Her argument was convincing, and her husband was a slob, fourteen or fifteen years older than him. He could understand her making the most of the circumstances. Both of them were getting something out of the relationship.

  “Just hold on to the thought that any attempt to escape or attack me, will end with Hannibal ripping your throat out. If I wasn’t here, you’d be dead now.”

  “I have no intention of abusing your trust.”

  “You haven’t got my trust, Kirstie. That’s the point I’m making. I expect the worst from people. That way I don’t get disappointed, or taken by surprise,” he said, walking over to the sideboard and taking two Polaroid pictures from a drawer, to return and hand to her. “This is what I’m capable of doing.”

  Kirstie did a double take. The sight of the thing in the chair was hard to make out. Then she recognised it to be a man; a fact only apparent due to the trousers, shoes and general shape. The room began to spin a little as her lungs cramped and seemed to freeze in her chest. Her eyes scanned the photo from top to bottom, then back again. What had happened to his face? Where was it? There were no features below the hairline but the orbs of his eyes staring out from what looked like bloody steak. And could the mass that extruded obscenely from his body be his innards?

  Slipping the image to the side, she looked at the one beneath it with the slow precision that a gambler will fan out the cards he has been dealt. The second ‘picture card’ was of a woman. It was taken from the rear, and the flash had caused glare on her bare backside and given the puddle of blood around her head the rich lustre of molten sealing wax.

  “I can see that you’re suitably impressed, Kirstie,” he said, retrieving the precious shots before she dropped them. “I eliminated those people last night. Don’t forget that you could easily end up the same way. I am much more than you can begin to imagine, so maintain your best behaviour, keep me intrigued, entertained and satisfied, and you may remain in one piece.”

  “Why would you do that?” Kirstie murmured, not able to truly comprehend the savagery captured in the photographs.

  “Because I can, is the simple, succinct answer. I have a rage that will not be contained or modified. Those who I have selected have to pay the piper.”

  “But no one gave your father cancer. They didn’t kill him.”

  “They took away his freedom. The stress of being locked away for years could have brought on the disease.”

  “There’s no basis for that supposition. You can’t blame society for his death by natural causes. Smoking causes cancer, heart disease and God knows how many other conditions. Did he smoke?”

  Paul’s expression was in the affirmative.

  “What if it was cigarettes that killed him? Kirstie said. “Would you murder every tobacco planter, picker, manufacturer, factory worker, wholesaler and shopkeeper? Or accept that nobody forced him to indulge?”

  He smiled. “I don’t deal in ‘what ifs’. No one is without guilt. That court was full of sinners who had no moral right to sit in judgement of my father.”

  “Are you saying that he was innocent?”

  “You don’t listen, Kirstie. What I said is, no one is without guilt. Whether he raped that woman or not is of no importance. It was her word against his. He said that she came on to him, and only asked him to stop when he was entering her. That’s like giving a starving dog a bone, then trying to take it back. When she made the complaint, the police should have told her to fuck off and keep her legs together in future.”

  “Have...have you hurt her?”

  “You mean, have I killed her? Alas, I was robbed of the chance to make her acquaintance. The whore – Pat Mullen – died in a car crash two years ago. I like to think of it as natural justice. I have the newspaper cuttings. The drunk who was driving the car she was a passenger in rear-ended a lorry. It had a load of steel on board, and a rod shot through the windscreen and pinned the bitch to the seat. I believe she suffered for a long time. Firemen cut her free, but she died on the way to hospital.”

  “Why can’t you just let it go now and get on with your life?”

  “Same reason that anybody does what they do. I enjoy it. It’s an exciting pastime. Everybody has to have a reason to get up in the morning; a vocation.”

  “But ninety-nine point nine percent of people don’t pick a hobby or job that causes terror and death to others.”

  “You’re wrong, Kirstie. Life is cheap. Governments sell weapons, stage-manage wars and profit from mass death and destruction. Hunters blow the shit out of wildlife for pleasure and call it sport. And so-called pet owners neglect and maltreat the animals in their care. Nothing is safe from man’s inhumanity. Well-oiled propaganda brainwashes the masses to accept a false concept of right and wrong, good and evil, while governments and their secret services dispose of or discredit those who would ridicule them. My personal contribution is paltry when viewed in perspective. Soldiers shoot unarmed civilians in the Middle East on an almost daily basis, for no better reason than that they worship a different god. And millions of people are allowed to starve in third world countries, due to apathy and corruption.”

  “That’s very articulate, Paul. But as individuals, we have moral choice. Just because someone puts their head in a fire, doesn’t mean you have to follow suit.”

  “It’s all words. We all dance to a different drumbeat. We could theorise forever, but that wouldn’t get the dinner cooked. Lighten up and enjoy the day, or go back in the cellar. It’s your choice.”

  No point pushing him. “What have we got, turkey and all the trimmings?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Would you like to shower first?”

  “Please.”

  He ushered her upstairs. Hannibal followed. Entering a bedroom, he pointed to a black, sequinned party frock, a suspender belt, nylons and a magenta plunge bra and matching thong that were laid out on the top of the duvet. Placed on the floor was a pair of black patent leather court shoes.

  “I think they’re your size,” he said. “I’d appreciate you wearing them. The bathroom is the next door along. I’ll leave you with Hannibal and go pour us a glass of wine. You’ll find that the windows are all double glazed and locked. And there are no scissors or any sharp instruments. Leave the doors open.”

  She went into the bathroom, and the dog lay down outside it, head on paws, with its unblinking eyes never straying from her.

  She showered, dried herself, and went back through to the bedroom, followed closely by her canine guard. Before dressing, she went to the window, parted the net curtains
and looked out. All she could see were the piled-up wrecks of cars, a razor wire-topped fence behind them, and the defoliated branches of trees beyond that. There was no sign of another house, or any other building. She could be anywhere.

  Grasping the handle on the window, she tried to raise it, but was not surprised to find that it was locked. Hannibal issued a rumbled warning and took a step towards her.

  “No problem, you overgrown shit machine,” she said. “Sit.” To her astonishment the dog obeyed. She approached it, put her hand out tentatively to stroke its head, but quickly withdrew as the black, glistening lips were pulled back to reveal an ivory armoury of dentine-coated daggers.

  It was a surprise to find that all but the bra fitted perfectly. Maybe he had intended her breasts to be compressed in a too-small bra to enhance her cleavage. She stood in front of the dressing table, tilted the mirror and appraised herself. The sheath dress was low at the front, almost back-less and very short, revealing most of her shapely legs. The overall effect was pleasing. Only the ugly but now healing wounds on her calf – inflicted by Hannibal – marred her appearance. She tossed her damp hair with her fingers, to give it a tousled carefree look, and then headed for the door.

  “C’mon, tiger, let’s go get with the programme,” she said, taking a wide berth around her black and tan chaperone.”

  Paul drew in his breath as she entered the kitchen. “Perfect,” he said. “You look beautiful, Kirstie.”