by Michael Kerr
“I haven’t got a future, and you know it,” Kirstie said. “There’s nothing I can say or do that will get me out of here alive. Is there?”
Paul put his right hand between the corpse’s legs, his left hand behind its back, and hefted it up into the air to place across his shoulder. He then faced Kirstie, slapping the pale buttocks – that were positioned adjacent to his right cheek – affectionately as he spoke. “You want cut-and-dried answers that I can’t give to you,” he said. “I’m evolving, no longer on a crusade against a few unworthy sheep. You might be my good luck charm, and I could keep you forever, or kill you tonight. It’s all about being spontaneous and living in the moment. You should lighten-up and try to please me. Hold on to hope, sweetheart, because it’s all you’ve got.”
She watched him leave the cellar. Anita’s thin, candle-white and pillar box-red upper body hung down his back, her arms swaying like kelp in an ocean current. He locked the door, and she heard him whistling a tuneless rendition of Jingle Bells as he plodded up the stairs.
He had left the low wattage light bulb on. The blood-stained floor and walls were testament to what had happened: hard proof that her drug-fogged mind had not invented the girl and all subsequent events. It was as if the room itself had been mortally wounded and bled out. Now bathed in scarlet brushstrokes, the cellar gave off a heavy, sour odour of sweat, blood and other even more sickening traces of semen and body waste. The moisture in the damp air of the underground room intensified the stench, and Kirstie wiped at herself and almost choked at the thought of her body being coated not just with blood, but with the intangible aftermath of the butchery. She doubted that even if she were to survive the ordeal she would ever be able to mentally wash away the residue of this abominable experience. The stink of death was ingrained into her pores and her psyche. Probably the worst aspect of what had taken place was Anita’s small, red hand print on the smooth concrete; a dreadful parody of the forecourt outside the Chinese Theatre in Los Angeles, where film stars left their hand and footprints in wet cement for posterity.
Sudden guilt overcame her. She wept and was ashamed to acknowledge that she had felt relief that it had been Anita taken from the bed and victimised. Her own survival was paramount, and although that might be a normal instinct under such extreme duress, it was still a bitter pill to swallow. Truth was, she had no aspirations for martyrdom. No cause seemed worthy to suffer and die for. Only in defence of Faye and Dennis would she lay down her life willingly.
Large snow flakes drifted down silently, discharged from the distended bellies of clouds that had piled-up from the west and now hung unseen and almost motionless in the evening sky.
He climbed into the crusher, opened the Rover’s rear offside door and bundled Anita’s earthly remains into the foot well. This was a special send-off. She was in a novel coffin, and would not be consumed by flames or buried within it, but amalgamated to become integral and a constituent part of a new assemblage.
Back on the ground, he pressed the start button and donned a pair of safety glasses before once more ascending the steel rungs that were welded to the side of the enormous machine.
The walls of the hydraulically-powered press slowly moved in and began the singular and unstoppable process of crumpling, crunching and reshaping the vehicle and its contents into a preordained cube of scrap. Glass exploded from twisted, buckling window frames, and the bonnet leapt open with a screech, as though it were mouthing outrage or pain. He chose to imagine that he could also hear bones cracking and snapping, and the girl’s skull popping under unsustainable pressure. The spectacle was immensely gratifying. For just a moment he saw part of the body appear; the glimpse of a breast and shoulder.
When the operation was complete and the animal and mineral parcel had been ejected like a turd from the anus of some gigantic beast, he went to it and examined the exterior for traces of the young whore who had given him so much pleasure. A few globules of blood clung to bright metal. And was that splintered shard a piece of bone? The only other evidence he could see of the compressed and steel-clad corpse was a finger end complete with nail protruding from a narrow fissure. The overall impression was of a Borg spacecraft; the synthetic and biological ships and aliens that had featured so strongly in some Star Trek episodes and spin-off movies.
He was now almost safe again. The car was no more. His mood was lighter. He walked over to where Hanny waited, unclipped the chain from his best friend’s collar and allowed him into the house. After showering and shaving off his beard – but keeping the moustache – he dressed in sweatpants and T-shirt and went down to the cellar.
At knife point, and with Hanny in attendance, Kirstie complied with his orders and offered no resistance when he set her free from the chain.
“There’s a mop, scrubbing brush and bucket next to the shower,” Paul said to her. “Go and get it and clean this place up, it stinks like a fucking abattoir.”
She took a wide berth around the dog, found the large bucket, filled it with hot water and added a generous amount of pine-scented disinfectant, then began to scrub away all residual evidence of Anita’s prior presence in the cellar.
“Use this,” he said, tossing her a thick rubber kneeling mat.
His moods and actions were unfathomable. Why would he give a damn if she skinned her knees on the concrete? He enjoyed inflicting pain, and yet within him was another personality that seemed to be independent and capable of showing a level of tenderness. Was the beast within him sated for awhile?
“That’ll do,” he said after she had emptied the bucket for the sixth time and was about to refill it with fresh water. “Get yourself a shower and we’ll go upstairs and have some supper. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” she said.
When she exited the shower stall, he was nowhere to be seen, but the dog was sitting attentively at the bottom of the stairs. She towelled herself dry and put on the robe that had been left draped over the back of a chair. Maybe she could find a weapon. There was nothing obvious. No tools hanging from nails on the walls. She noticed the workbench with the shapes of unknown objects beneath the sheet that covered them. Slowly pulling one corner back, she saw a pair of garden secateurs. They could be used as a double-bladed knife. As she reached out to pick them up, Hannibal’s hackles raised up and a low growl of warning escaped his open jaws. How could a dumb dog know her intentions? No matter. Suffice it was not about to let her arm herself with anything that would be a threat to its master. She dropped the sheet and took a step back away from the bench. The dog relaxed. Now what? She was not going to try to walk past it. She sat on the chair and waited.
“You all finished?” Paul said as he came back down into the cellar.
She nodded. “I thought I’d better wait for you. Wonder Dog didn’t seem too keen on me moving.”
“Hanny’s just got my best interests at heart, Kirstie. Come here and make friends with him.”
“I’d rather not.”
“It wasn’t a request.”
She walked slowly over to within three feet of the two most frightening creatures she had ever met.
“Paw, Hannibal,” Paul said.
The dog raised its long-clawed paw into the air.
“So shake it,” Paul ordered.
Kirstie had to move even closer to comply. The massive forefoot slammed down into her open palm, and she could feel the plump sandpaper-rough pads scrape across her skin.
“Good. Now stroke him.”
She ran her hand lightly over the broad crown of its head.
“That’s nice. We’re all pals, now. Let’s go eat.”
She somehow ate two toasted cheese sandwiches and drank a mug of coffee. The horror that had taken place earlier seemed illusory. She could almost believe that it had not happened. Some safety mechanism in her brain assimilated it in the same way that it dealt with daily news of doom and gloom. Or a movie. She had to remain detached from it.
Paul looked at his wristwatch. It was almost t
en o’clock, and he had more work to do that night. “Time to go back downstairs,” he said.
“Thanks for the break,” Kirstie said, and meant it. The time away from the dank, crypt-like room went a long way to saving her sanity.
By ten-twenty he was on the road again, this time at the wheel of a beat-up Vauxhall Nova. He drove into the city and called the incident room number. A female cop answered and he asked to speak to Barnes. As she asked him to hold, he ended the call. He had only wanted to know that the DI was still on duty.
He waited within sight of the Yard’s car park entrance with the engine running and the heater on full. He had a pair of infrared binoculars, and far more patience than the average man.
He checked every vehicle that left. It was past midnight when the barrier was raised and a 4x4 emerged from the underground car park. He focused the glasses on the driver. “Yeesss!” The wait was over. Barnes was on the move. Another car followed him out; a Lexus. He took an extra second to eyeball the driver. It was a woman. He tossed the binoculars onto the passenger seat and pulled out in pursuit of the two vehicles. This was intriguing. The Lexus was staying with the SUV. What was the relationship between Barnes and the piece of skirt? Was she just another cop? Or was there more to it than that? Maybe Barnes and the brunette in the Lexus were an item. If so, then it would be the woman who would be targeted. Kirstie would soon have company again; a replacement for Anita.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
BETH studied the photograph. The death scene was in keeping with that of a frenzied sexual attack that had escalated to murder. The unknown girl lay on her side, bound to a chair. She appeared to be dead, though in that frozen moment may still have been technically alive. The blood around her was from a deep cut to her throat and dozens of other visible slash and puncture wounds.
Matt waited, not interrupting Beth’s thought process. The hubbub of phones and keyboards was not noise that broke her concentration. She was staring intently at the sickening image, hopefully seeing more than had met his eye. He went over to the corner of the room, poured them both coffee and returned to set the mugs down on the desktop, then took a seat and enjoyed the sight of her profile. It was still amazing to him that they were a couple, buying a house in the country and planning on growing old together. He was still of the opinion that she was far too good for him. At heart he was just a street cop with no qualifications worth spit outside the force. When they had first met, through working a case together, she had shown contempt for him, and yet they had very quickly become involved, irresistibly drawn to one another. He was besotted by her. She had brought out a gentle side of his nature that he had been unaware of possessing. Just watching her study the photograph was a joy. The tip of her tongue was protruding from her mouth and periodically flicking across her bottom lip. Her dark hair was thick, lustrous, and framing a face that was without flaw, to his mind. He was of the opinion that no artist would be able to capture her beauty, transfer it to canvas and do her justice.
“If this girl is not related to or very close to a juror, court official or cop who was involved with the Roberts’ case, then he really has evolved in the worst possible way,” Beth said, handing the Polaroid back to Matt.
“We can’t find any link between her and anybody who Sutton might consider a legitimate target. Everybody on our list is accounted for.”
“Which means that he has definitely raised the stakes and modified his parameters.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He’s developed a taste for killing; a hunger for the thrill it gives him. If this girl is just some victim he abducted at random, then we now have a full-blown sadistic personality type serial killer out there. He’s basically sexually motivated, so women will be his preferred prey.”
“But why is he keeping Kirstie Marshall alive?”
“I don’t know, Matt. She’s obviously managed to connect with him on some level. But he will kill her. It’s when, not if. He’s irrational, and has moved the goal posts. He may be wary of trying to take another of his initial targets yet. This girl in the photo might have just been an interim side dish to him.”
“With a little luck we’ll find him before he strikes again.”
“How come?”
Matt waved the photo. “A kid saw him and his car when he left this in a phone box for me to pick up. We have his current description, and know the make and colour of the car he drives.”
“Where does that lead you?”
“To his door, I hope. We know the area he’s in from the triangulation of the mobile phone calls he made. I think there’s a more than an even chance he fills up his car locally. Someone sees him, his car, and maybe the dog. Most of the team are out now checking petrol stations and any other likely places he might use.”
“Have you told Tom what you’ve got?”
“Not yet. He’s under too much pressure from upstairs to keep it under wraps. I don’t want Sutton to have any inkling of what we know until we smash his door down and put the cuffs on.”
“You sound optimistic.”
“I am. His need to communicate with me is going to be the end of him.”
There was no break by midnight. Matt was not daunted. Many of the smaller filling stations and garages in villages and off the main roads would not be open late in the evening. He was confident that the following morning would prove more productive. The vet angle had been fruitless. With hardly any exceptions, practices had now been contacted and given the names and addresses of any owners of German shepherds that loosely fitted Sutton’s description. It was apparent that Hannibal was not registered within the search area. The daunting and probably impossible task of compiling details of all owners of the breed in the Greater London area was something Matt hoped would not be necessary. It was as good as a dead end.
“Let’s go pester Ron for a drink and a sandwich,” Matt said. “Then grab a couple of hours’ sleep.”
They took both cars, left the Yard and drove to the small hotel in Tottenham and parked outside. Matt got out of the Discovery and ran the few yards back to open Beth’s door, then put his arm around her shoulder as she climbed out into the freezing night air.
He watched as they snuggled up together like a couple of spooning kids on their first date and made for the main door of the Kenton Court Hotel. This called for a change of plan. Barnes was not a loner with no one he cared a dog’s fart for. The good looking bitch who had followed him in the Lexus was significant, and as such would be a perfect weapon to use against the cop.
“You two work more unsociable hours than me,” Ron said as he unlocked the door and ushered them through to the bar.
“I’m only burning the midnight oil because this dumb ox I’m with doesn’t think the Yard can solve squat without his personal hands-on involvement,” Beth said.
Matt grinned but took the comment on board. It was true. Beth measured her words carefully and was rarely flippant for the sake of it. The psychologist in her was always analysing the motivations and actions of others, including him.
“When do you turn off and stop being a shrink?” he said.
Beth frowned. The remark had been shot from the hip without any shred of humour. “I know how to keep work and play separate, Matt. I don’t let what I do be who I am.”
“Maybe what I do is who I am,” Matt said. “Being on a case is like having a burning wire in my blood. I become fixated. It’s a race to achieve damage limitation...to stop the rot.”
“Hey, hey, calm down children,” Ron said, clamping his huge hand on Matt’s shoulder and applying enough pressure to make him grunt. “Take a seat near the fire while I pour us all a large brandy.”
Matt helped Beth off with her coat and folded it neatly over the back of a chair, then removed his own and tossed it onto the seat without ceremony.
“Was that our first row?” Beth said as he sat down next to her at a small table just a few feet away from the large fire that crackled and spat sap from the flaming logs in i
ts brass portcullis-fronted grate.
“Hell, no,” Matt said. “That was just two people making a valid point. I thought you knew I was driven. All I can think of at the moment is that poor woman locked up in a cellar. I try not to imagine what she is having to endure, but I do.”
“You get too involved. I know that you absorb all the atrocities you see, but you can’t hold on to them. You have to let go and purge the poison out of your system. If you don’t, then you’ll be sucked under by the weight of it all.”
“Is that free counselling?”
“It’s the truth, and you know it.”
He held out his hand to her and she took it. Ron placed loaded glasses in front of them and gave them both a broad smile.
Matt took a long swallow of the brandy. It burned a path down his gullet, and the mellow spirit warmed his stomach and loosened the tightness in his mind.
“You’re right,” he said to Beth. “You’ll have to use your expertise and help me find the off switch when I get too heavy.”
She squeezed his hand. The light friction between them had dissolved. It was hard not to feel a little guilty. She knew how obsessed he became when hunting for a killer. It was that facility which made him more than just a good cop. He was like a programmed missile, unerringly following an invisible, unrelenting path to its target. That side of him frightened her. The man she loved was incapable of taking the middle ground. He saw everything in black and white, as right or wrong with no ambiguity. It was as if he considered life too short to not have a direction and purpose in it. On one level she felt herself a distraction. She had removed the blinkers from his eyes to allow him a greater field of vision, and also hoped that she could side-track him from the stony road he trod. They had discussed it, but he had insisted that he wanted much more from life than just a career. He was learning to relax and appreciate other facets of his – until recently – too focused personality. Beth knew that she was now the most important thing in his life. But she was also aware that he had to be able to function freely within his chosen field of expertise.