Lethal Intent (DI Matt Barnes Book 2)

by Michael Kerr

  “The ring must have cost a weighty bundle of luncheon vouchers,” Ron said as the reflected light of the fire’s flames seemed to ignite the myriad surfaces of the large diamond. “You two going to get hitched?”

  “Yes, Ron,” Beth said, wiggling her finger and smiling. “We’d like to have an official engagement party here, when we can find a free evening.”

  Ron topped up their glasses from the bottle he had brought across from the bar. “It would my pleasure to lay on a real feast. Just try to give me a couple of days notice, so that I can do you both justice.”

  They chatted for over an hour before Beth saw Matt begin to fidget. He had enjoyed the respite, but now wanted to be back in the squad room with his finger on the pulse, ready to move if anything broke. The fact that he would be contacted by phone if anything did, was not enough.

  He waited, kept looking at the dashboard clock, and let his mind replay the killing of the girl he had fed to the jaws of the crusher. He visualised the chain of events, from the moment she had tapped him up for a cigarette in the café, until she was melded and as one within the compressed mass of what had been a car. Were everybody’s thoughts so vivid? He could call-up any given episode with intense clarity. He allowed himself to be in the chapel of rest, standing at the head of his stepfather’s open coffin. The man he chose to think of as his real father, in all but blood, was in death a shrunken facsimile of Ted Roberts. He closed his eyes to leave the present and absorb the past. There was a smell of wood polish and flowers. Ted’s face was waxen, like the tailors’ chalk used to mark cloth around the paper patterns pinned to it. Ted’s eyelids were also closed. Was it true that the morticians gummed them shut? And that they put a stitch through the inside of the lips to hold them together? He knew they washed a corpse’s hair and cleaned the nails. Ted’s fingernails had never been so clean. And his thin, greying hair was parted on the wrong side. There was no stubble on his face. Had they shaved him as well? He stayed trapped in that chapel of rest for a while; held the cold hand that was laid across the chest, and looked at the man with more intensity than he ever had in life. There were a few blackheads in the creases around the nose, and a small white scar bisected the left eyebrow. Coarse hairs curled out of both ears.

  He had gone back to the chapel three times, alone, and had taken a Polaroid on the last visit, which he had kept in his wallet ever since. He sighed and withdrew from the past to be wholly in the car again and watching the distorted yellow-lit door of the hotel through the rain-veined windscreen.

  The door opened as if on cue and the subjects of his interest came out, lingered under the small portico that proclaimed the name of the third-rate flophouse in blue neon, said their farewells to a tall, bearded man, obviously the hotelier, and ran to their respective vehicles.

  He had no fixed plan; was happy to play it by ear and see what transpired. As they pulled away into the night, he took up the chase, kept well back and tailed them.

  After less than a minute the woman snapped her headlights onto full beam three times and peeled off. He could only stay with one of them. Without hesitation he followed the Lexus. This was not surveillance any more. He was hunting.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  BETH was exhausted. She knew that she should not be driving after drinking three large brandies. They should have stayed at the hotel as Ron had invited them to. But Matt felt in sight of the finish line. He believed it imminent that Sutton’s whereabouts would be uncovered. Watching her speed and hoping that she would not be stopped, she vowed to herself not to drink and drive again. It was wrong, and she knew it.

  Parking as near to the walkway as possible, Beth made a run for cover, pressing the remote to secure the car as she readied the keycard to swipe through the slot and disengage the lock on the entrance door to the flats. The rain had turned to sleet and was a stinging, freezing downpour.

  Once inside, she rummaged through her shoulder bag and found tissues to wipe her face with as she headed for the lift.

  Entering the top floor apartment, she dumped her bag and coat on a chair inside the door, kicked off her shoes and went to the bedroom to undress, then padded through to the bathroom and turned on the shower. The hot water drove out the cold and refreshed her. She was wide awake and more than a little perturbed, unsettled by Matt’s obsessive frame of mind. He became so bloody fixated on cases, as if he was the only cop capable of solving them. He made it personal, and it shouldn’t be that way. The job had nearly been the death of him at least twice to her knowledge, and she wondered if on some level he got off on danger and needed to be directly in the firing line. Was their love strong enough to withstand his all-encompassing persistence in seeking out and thwarting evil? It might be a noble cause, but she wanted more security in life than a lawman who lived on the edge and blithely risked everything in pursuit of whatever he deemed to be justice.

  Dressed in a robe, and with Mick Hucknall on the radio telling her to ‘Look in the Mirror, Baby’, she brushed her hair out and went through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She was past sleep. It was three in the morning, but her mind was in top gear. She realised that she wanted a safety net that was not there to break any fall. Even if everything went through without a hitch and they moved to the cottage in Borehamwood, then the idyllic surroundings would not change the reality of the situation. Matt’s personality was not going to alter. If she wanted a carpet-and-slippers man with a safe profession, then Matt was not it, and never would be. Jesus Christ! It wasn’t his job or attitude that disconcerted her. It was the fear of knowing that she could lose him that was causing her such mental turmoil. She reminded herself that if you have nothing to lose, then you don’t have much going for you in the first place. That Matt wasn’t some high flier in Information Technology, or in one of a thousand other areas of work that might at worst give him an ulcer or high blood pressure, was a fact of life. He was a copper in the Serious Crimes Unit, and that was it, kiddo. Take it or leave it, but don’t cry over milk that was already spilt. It was the whole package that had attracted her to him in the first place. He was a character who could not be ignored or easily forgotten. He was like a chocolate; its outer dark and slightly bitter shell protecting a sweet, soft centre. The frisson she always felt in his presence was like a surge of electricity arcing across the space between them. Let the good times roll, she thought. There was no such thing as guaranteed protection against bad shit happening. Risk began with the first breath taken as we entered this world, and was a constant companion until we took our last. She grinned. She had let her ‘live one day at a time’ philosophy come under heavy fire. Love had a way of gnawing at the soul and testing any weaknesses therein. She resolved to lighten up and not dwell on any downside.

  As she turned the kitchen light out, the phone in the lounge rang.

  She feigned a yawn as she answered. It had to be Matt. No one else she knew would ring in the middle of the night.

  “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

  “Of course not. Why would I be asleep at three-thirty in the morning?”

  “I thought sarcasm was the lowest form of wit?”

  “No. Bernard Manning and Lenny Bruce were the lowest form of wit. And I’m not in bed. I just had a shower and a cup of tea. I don’t feel tired. Why the call?”

  “To apologise for being a prat. You were right. I do get too personally involved. It’s the way I’ve always operated.”

  “I knew that from the beginning, Matt. And you don’t believe in being sorry as I recall. It was me being a bit clingy. If the commitment you give helps to save Kirstie Marshall’s life, then it’s worth it. I only wish you wouldn’t provoke every serial killer you come across. Have you forgotten what happened the last time you pissed one off?”

  “The end justified the means.”

  “I beg to differ. We were seconds away from being murdered. You unwittingly brought Noon into my home, and that we survived was a minor...no, a major miracle. We used up all our luck that day.”

&nb
sp; “You’re right. I admit to pushing the envelope a little, sometimes.

  “A little?”

  “Okay, too much. I’ll try not to be so abrasive with maniacs in future.”

  “That’s good to hear. What are you doing now?”

  “Still waiting for a break. I’ll try and get a couple of hours’ sleep in the office. Are you coming in later?”

  “Yes. I’ll grab some doughnuts on the way. Have the coffee ready for eight…ish.”

  “Will do. Love you, sweetheart.”

  “Ditto,” she said, blowing a kiss down the phone before hanging up.

  He drew to a stop in time to see her enter the building. Reversing the Nova into a slot, he watched, waiting for a light to come on in one of the dark apartments. A minute later he was rewarded. A top floor window of Hawksworth House lit up.

  Strolling over to the door he inspected the names of the tenants listed alongside the intercom call buttons. B. Holder. The name rang a bell. She lived on the tenth floor. He returned to the car, sat for a while and thought it through. There was no rush. He would go home, collect some necessary items and return in a few hours. When she left the apartment building again, he would snatch her. Holder! It came to him. She had been mentioned in the newspapers. The bitch was a criminal psychologist; some sort of profiler who sold her services to the police. No doubt Barnes was screwing her on the side. It would be interesting to get to know her and give her a chance to come face to face with the man that she was attempting to help the plods apprehend: let her have some real insider knowledge, and be more than just an outsider creating pen pictures. It would be a learning curve; a period of personal instruction; a tutorial that she would not graduate from.

  He drove home in high spirits, hoping that he would have the willpower to hold off from contacting Barnes for at least twenty-four hours after lifting the good doctor. It would be fun to let the cop sweat for a while, as his mind conjured up an image of his lover suffering the same fate as Garrick the QC, or Anita.

  Allowing Hannibal into the house, he quickly changed, made two mugs of hot chocolate and went down to the cellar with the dog at his heels.

  He sat on the bed next to Kirstie, handed her one of the mugs and told her his plans.

  “You’ll have company again in a few hours,” he said. “Our expected guest is a trick-cyclist who specialises in unravelling the workings of dysfunctional minds. She’s a student of human behaviour, who no doubt believes she has an insight as to what motivates me.”

  Kirstie forced herself to engage him in conversation. She felt the need to remain a person in his mind; to not just withdraw into herself and become no more than an object to him. She held on to the belief that while there was dialogue between them, he was in some way using her as a channel, or an audience of one to unburden himself.

  “Why do you want to abduct her?” she said.

  “For two reasons. One, because she is in essence a bounty hunter who uses her expertise to meddle in something that is not her business. She will no doubt collect a fat consultation fee for the observations and intuitiveness she feeds to the police in their efforts to find me. She is voluntarily entering into a game that by its very nature involves great risk. I despise her for even presuming that she can come to know and outwit me. Secondly, and more far-reaching, there’s an added bonus. The bitch is more than just a fellow investigator in the hunt. She and the copper, Barnes, are tight. I was going to kill him, but I can cause him far more grief by taking her.”

  “Where does it all end, Paul?” Kirstie pushed. “How many people have to die? You told me that this was revenge against those you held accountable for your stepfather’s death. Where did Anita fit into that, or the others who you plan on murdering?”

  He drank his cocoa. He had made it with milk, and the skin that had formed on the surface stuck to his top lip. He sucked it off and swallowed it as he thought over what Kirstie had said to him. Should he punish her for questioning his motives? No. Her views were stimulating. That she had the temerity to speak her mind was courageous, and appreciated.

  “I have come to realise that feeding my inner needs in this way is fulfilling,” he said. “And as for an end to it, there doesn’t have to be one. Great artists don’t stop painting. As long as they enjoy their pastime, they indulge it. Van Gogh lived in poverty and reputedly only sold one painting, The Red Vineyard, in his short, pathetic life, just a few months before he died from a gunshot wound which has always been believed to have been self-inflicted, though no gun was ever found. A compulsion to engage in any activity might appear irrational to others, but is no less irresistible to those who are compelled to engage in it.”

  “Van Gogh suffered for his art and finally took his own life,” Kirstie stated. “What he did was not enough to bring him any degree of contentment.”

  “You miss the point, you witless woman. He was driven,” Paul snapped with more than a little frustration in his voice. “Don’t you understand that it’s the journey that is important, not the destination?”

  “Doesn’t right or wrong have any part to play in that journey?”

  “It has no bearing. Everyone does things that they know are wrong to a greater or lesser extent. I have no qualms over what I do. I’m living this life for myself. We all have choices to make, and in the main see things from a very personal perspective.”

  “But―”

  “Shut the fuck up, Kirstie. Your mind is obviously closed to all else but your own dilemma. Good and evil are abstracts. It’s just balance. Life is composed of predators and prey. It always has been and always will be. Are the fishermen who slice the fins off sharks for profit and then throw the helpless creatures back into the sea to face a lingering death, good? Are the so-called terrorists who believe in their cause and are willing to fight and die in an attempt to thwart the might of their oppressors in the only way they can, evil? Who stands tall enough and with a conscience clean enough to decide what is right or wrong? If I believe blood sports are right, and you disagree, which one of us should prevail in deciding on animals’ rights and subsequent fate? Truth is, we fight from our own corner and have lost sight of the fact that for all practical purposes, might is right.”

  “That’s an over simplification. It makes for good argument, but the bottom line is, the majority of people can differentiate between what is really right or wrong. It is being able to empathise with other people’s feelings and treat them how you would want them to treat you that counts. You either know that it’s wrong to rob, hurt or kill, or you don’t.”

  “And that is just another oversimplification,” Paul said with a smug smile on his lips. “Our own Government equates everything to money. They don’t give a fuck for the individual old age pensioner or anyone else. They live off the fat of the land while millions of people struggle through life on or below the poverty line. They take as much as they can off us in taxes, and squander it on white elephants of their own choosing. There would be no need for charities and private fund-raising for research into cures for cancer and other diseases and worthwhile causes if they cared about anything but self-serving power. You, me and everybody else are just statistics and death certificates waiting to happen, so get real and take off the blinkers.”

  “Do you really believe that they won’t catch you.”

  “I know they won’t. They’re looking for someone who doesn’t exist, and who can adapt and stay ahead of the game. I plan to drop out of circulation soon and resurface in another place with another identity. I’m their worst case scenario, an opponent who does not conform to any pattern that they can home in on. Now, let’s stop wasting time and have sex. I need a little light relief before I go and pick up the shrink.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  PETE Deakin was wide awake and edgy, waiting for the call that would set the op in motion. When the phone on his desk rang he snatched it up fully expecting one of the squad to have located Sutton.

  “Deakin,” he said, pen poised to write down an add
ress.

  Matt stopped pacing up and down the squad room and impatiently drummed his fingers on the back of a chair, while his DS grunted and said “Shit” at least five times into the receiver. His nerves came off red alert. If it had been a strong lead, then Pete’s attitude would have been vastly different.

  “I don’t believe it, boss,” Pete said, shaking his head as he hung up. “Henry Robinson just turned up dead in Stoke Newington.”

  “Who?”

  “Uh, the kid we talked to...Skater. He was found in a park near that phone box with his throat cut.”

  It changed everything. Not believing in coincidences, it led Matt to presume that Skater had been murdered by Sutton. The implications were obvious. After making the call and planting the Polaroid, Sutton had hidden nearby and waited for them to turn up. He must have watched them talk to the lad. It took no stretch of the imagination to guess what had happened next. Skater had most likely entered the park and boarded straight into the arms of the killer.

  “What does it mean, boss?” Pete said.

  “That I inadvertently got the boy murdered,” Matt said, his voice strained. “And that Sutton will know everything he told us. Jesus, the bastard was probably no more than a hundred yards away, laughing at us. He’ll have dumped the Rover and changed his appearance again.”

  “That won’t help him. If he uses a garage in the area he lives, then we still might get an address.”

  “If and might don’t inspire confidence. He doesn’t trust his own shadow. There’s every possibility that he hasn’t left a trail.”

  “I’m going to hold on to the belief that at least up until he abducted Laura Preston, he did.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Matt said before walking up to the whiteboard and smashing his fist into the likeness of Paul Sutton, that seemed to sneer out into the room and mock him. The maniac was not only elusive, but even had the audacity to lure them to a predetermined location and observe them. What else had he done? Matt gave it a lot of thought. Maybe this wasn’t the first time he’d had them in his sights. There were implications that made Matt’s spine tingle. Had Sutton seen him with Beth? It was not safe to consider that being beyond the realms of possibility. With all his experience, he had underestimated the man and not looked at the big picture. Sutton may feel that attack was the best form of defence.