by Michael Kerr
Matt pocketed the phone, then hiked his shoulders apologetically.
Beth just nodded. Knew that he would drop her off at home and vanish. Maybe it was losing the house that diminished her optimism. And maybe it was that she saw the stranger in Matt. Recognised the need in him that could not be denied. She absently rubbed at the ring on her finger as she followed him out into the car park and into a future that she could not help but be a little uncertain of.
# # # #
The third instalment of Matt Barnes, A Need To Kill, is available now on Amazon. For a sneak preview, keep reading.
About The Author
Michael Kerr is the pseudonym of Mike Smail the author of several crime thrillers and two children’s novels. He lives and writes in the Yorkshire Wolds, and has won, been runner-up, and short listed on numerous occasions for short story competitions with Writing Magazine and Writers’ News.
After a career of more than twenty years in the Prison Service, Mike now uses his experience in that area to write original, hard-hitting crime novels.
Connect With Michael Kerr and discover other great titles.
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Also By Michael Kerr
DI Matt Barnes Series
1 - A Reason To Kill - Link
2 - Lethal Intent - Link
3 - A Need To Kill - Link
The Joe Logan Series
1 - Aftermath - Link
2 - Atonement - Link
Other Crime Thrillers
Deadly Reprisal - Link
Deadly Requital - Link
Black Rock Bay - Link
A Hunger Within - Link
The Snake Pit - Link
Children’s Fiction
Adventures in Otherworld – Part One – The Chalice of Hope - Link
Matt Barnes 3 - A Need To Kill – Sample
CHAPTER ONE
He came awake with a low groan dying in his throat. It was a sudden, startled return to consciousness from a vague and already fading bad dream. He felt confused, had no idea where he was, and acknowledged that he was shaking, breathing heavily and feeling frightened. Of what? He didn’t know. The mobile phone on top of the bedside cabinet was ringing, or to be more precise, playing the first two bars of a familiar tune that he couldn’t name. He ignored it for a while. Just lay on his back and gathered his scrambled thoughts. The moon’s pearly light shone through the gap in the curtains to paint a broad brushstroke across the bed. His arms were on top of the duvet. They looked as pale as a corpse’s. He reached out as he twisted onto his side, but was alone. The only person who mattered was not next to him. He touched the cold bedding, sniffed at the plump pillow and could smell the lingering scent of her perfume. Everything flooded back, and his brain resumed normal service.
Sitting up against the headboard, he picked up the Nokia and took the call.
“Yeah?”
“Detective Inspector Barnes?”
“Speaking.” His voice was a dry, gritty drawl.
“This is Detective Constable Collins, sir.”
“Who’s dead?”
“Uh, the chief has been trying to get hold of you. Something big has hit the fan.”
“Where is he?”
“At a lockup in Putney.”
“And?”
“It’s high profile. There’s a victim, but no one is talking. The chief wouldn’t attend a scene in the middle of the night for something run-of-the-mill.”
“Okay, Collins, give me the address, then get back on to the chief and tell him I’m on my way. I’ll give him a bell en route.”
He scribbled the details down and ended the call. There was no rush. The dead waited. They were in no hurry. He got dressed in the gloom, then took the time to go into the kitchen and brew himself an instant coffee, black.
As he sipped noisily at the steaming liquid, his phone rang again.
“Barnes”
“Where the hell have you been?”
“At home in bed, if it’s any of your damn business, Tom.”
“You should answer your phone.”
“I should do a lot of things. What have you got that’s important enough to drag you out of your pit at this time?”
“Get your scrawny arse over here and see for yourself. And have a couple of your team attend. This one is for us, Matt. And I guarantee you won’t thank me for it.”
As he drove, Matt phoned Pete Deakin, his DS. “We have work, Pete. You got a pen handy?”
“Yeah, boss. What’s gone down?”
“All I know is, we’ve got a stiff at a lockup in Putney. And the chief is already there, so it must be heavy. Get hold of Marci. I want you both there in thirty minutes.”
It was almost five a.m. when Matt parked the Discovery behind a line of marked and unmarked official vehicles that included a forensic team’s Ford transit. He approached the blue and white strand of tape, which was strung between rusted railings and a lamp post to designate the area beyond it as a crime scene. Flicked his half-smoked cigarette behind him and ducked underneath the fluttering, breeze-blown ribbon.
One of the wooden doors to the lockup was partly open. As he approached it, the silhouetted figure of Tom Bartlett appeared, backlit by portable lights that turned night to day.
“Who’ve we got in there, the Prime Minister, or maybe a royal?” Matt asked.
Tom grimaced. “Might as well be. It’s a working girl. What makes her special is, she charged a grand a night, and had a clientele made up of names that we read about over our cornflakes every morning.”
“So?”
“So it’s a political time bomb. There’ll be a lot of arses puckering in the corridors of power when this hits the headlines.”
“Why?”
“Because the stupid cow was carrying her address book, and it wasn’t in code. It’s like a condensed version of Who’s Who, complete with names, personal notes and telephone numbers.”
“That information can be suppressed.”
“The book can. But three pages have been ripped out. At this stage, we have to presume that the killer took them.”
Matt frowned. “It would’ve been easier for him to take the book.”
“You’re using logic, Matt. We have to work with what we’ve got. Or should I say, you and your team do.”
“Why have we drawn the short straw? This isn’t one for SCU.”
“It is now. Chief Superintendent Clive Adams rang me and said that given the sensitivity of the case, and that it looked to be a carbon copy of one that went down in Dulwich last month, he wanted the Serious Crimes Unit, and in particular you, to investigate it as a priority.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’ve got form with repeaters and crazies. After the Gary Noon and Paul Sutton cases, you have to expect to be given everything that lives at the bottom of the pond. You and Beth are looked on as a double act by some of the brass on the top floor.”
The mention of her name pricked him with the sharpness of a knife. Beth was in New York at a seminar for psychologists and assorted shrinks who specialised in the study of behavioural patterns of the criminally insane. Dr. Beth Holder consulted periodically on cases that involved murders carried out by an individual who followed a pattern that she could interpret, and by so doing, accurately predict – more often than not – the likely post offence behaviour, coupled with a profile of the offender and an insight into the personality disorder he or she suffered from. This gave the police investigative leads to follow that they may not have considered.
Matt and Beth were in love. Thrown together in the hunt for a killer, they had bonded on several levels. Twice within a very short period, Matt had almost lost her. Two human monsters had turned on them, almost robbing them of a future. Now, they were at risk t
o a more insidious enemy. Beth was sure of her love for Matt, but recognised that his work as a cop was not just a career, but a mission. Hunting down murderers was what he did. It was as necessary to him as the air he breathed, even if he refused to acknowledge it. Only time would tell if she could share him with such an all consuming force.
“Let’s see the body,” Matt said to Tom, prising his mind away from thoughts of Beth.
“You take a look. I’ve seen enough, and I need a smoke.”
Matt walked into the low-ceilinged breeze block box. It was at most eighteen feet long by ten feet wide. There was an underlying smell of must and damp from the flaky, whitewashed walls. And other even more unpleasant odours emanated from the naked body of a young woman laying supine on the oil-stained concrete floor.
One of the two crime scene techs, Lenny Newton, nodded to him, intimating that it was okay for him to get up close and personal with the cadaver. The Home Office pathologist had been and gone. The scene was now Matt’s to process. He squatted down at the side of the victim, took in the details and soaked up first impressions.
“What’ve you found?” Matt asked Lenny, who had removed his gloves and was closing up the battered aluminium case that was a portable crime lab.
“Adhesive on the wrists and ankles and around the face and in her hair,” Lenny said. “At some stage she was trussed up and gagged with tape. And if you look at her right jaw line, you’ll see an impression on the skin.”
Matt examined the side of the face and found deep bruising that formed some kind of indistinguishable pattern amid the lighter contusion it was surrounded by.
“A ring,” he said.
Lenny nodded. “Looks like it. An embossed job. Here, take a closer look,” he said, quickly flicking open the catches of his case again to remove a magnifying glass from the foam rubber slot that held it in place, to hand to Matt.
The purpling blotch could have been stamped on the flesh. It looked like a hallmark; some kind of animals’ head. Matt felt a jolt of elation. This was a bonus. The killer had made a mistake and left a clue; a lead to kick-start the case into motion.
“Can you do anything with this to sharpen it up?” he asked.
“Maybe. We’ve taken regular and infrared shots, and there are other procedures that will enhance it. Nat Farley was the pathologist called out. I’ll get together with him when he does the cut and see what we can do. We have the technology.”
“Thanks, Lenny. It could lead us to the creep’s door.”
Matt would soon come to know that the woman was, or had been, Marsha Freeman, known professionally as Trudi Jameson. At that moment she was just the physical evidence of a crime he had been assigned to; an impersonal and inanimate object. The auburn hair was long and thick and framed a bruised face that in life and animated, he could imagine being beautiful. The slack, open mouth and bluish coloration of the lips and skin now robbed it of its former glamour. The cyanosis – denoting the presence of deoxygenated blood – was pronounced, and blood had pooled on the underside of the body. Matt breathed through his mouth to lessen the stink that resulted from the relaxed bladder and bowels. It struck him that the killer had not posed the corpse. The rag doll attitude of the body implied that any interest in her had evaporated when she expired. The arms were straight out from the shoulders with the hands palm up, fingers clawed. The tights that had been used to strangle her with were of a fine denier; sheer and charcoal grey. They had been knotted around her neck with the loose ends draped in the cleavage between silicone-enhanced breasts that stood up unnaturally from her slim torso, defying gravity. The corneas of the bulging eyes were green, and pinpoint haemorrhages to the surrounding white sclera signified asphyxia, confirming that she had died by way of strangulation. Small circular cigarette burns could be seen around both nipples and on the stomach and inner thighs. There was still particles of ash adhered to some of the inflamed, weeping wounds. Whoever had murdered the woman had tortured her first. Matt looked around for cigarette ends. There were none. And if there had been, Lenny would have told him. After his initial inspection, Matt went outside to where Tom was standing, broad shoulders hunched as he looked up at the pre dawn sky.
“What did Farley have to say?” Matt asked Tom, pulling a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter from a pocket of his fleece and lighting up.
Tom turned to face Matt. “Nat found nothing that you haven’t just seen for yourself. Some psycho punter beat the shit out of her, burned her with cigarettes and then offed her with a pair of tights. Same MO that was used on the other victim.”
“Who found the body?”
“We got a phone call. Whoever rang it in used some gizmo to make his voice sound like a fucking Dalek. Gave the location and said we’d find a fallen woman who had, through suffering, repented and was now beyond all weakness of the flesh. It’s on tape.”
“What else do we know?”
“That it would appear nothing was taken, apart from the pages from her address book. You saw her clothes and shoulder bag in the lockup. There’s over four hundred quid in her purse. And her earrings, two finger rings and a gold chain were removed and placed with the cash.”
“Who was the first victim?”
“A teenager who solicited kerb crawlers. Not in the same league as this one, though. She was a runaway from somewhere up north. Leeds, I think. The only thing that they had in common was their line of work. Now that it’s our case we’ll get all the paperwork and see where it leads.”
“What about the book? You think he might try and blackmail some of the punters?”
“If he gave a shit about money, why would he have left a wad of it and the jewellery in the victim’s purse?”
Matt shrugged. It didn’t add up. He dropped the cigarette end and ground it into the pavement with his heel. Squinted his eyes and turned his head away from the glare of an approaching car’s headlights.
Pete Deakin got out of his Vectra and walked towards them. Behind him, Marci Clark parked up and hurried to where they were standing outside the lockup’s doors.
Matt nodded in greeting. He was pissed at them both. Knew that they were an item, and that as leader of the team he should transfer one of them out. He’d waited for Pete to satisfy his lust with Marci and move on, but his sergeant had subtly changed since being shot and nearly killed three months ago. It was as if nearly cashing in his chips had concentrated his mind. He was steadying down and looking at life from a different angle. They were both first class cops. Matt didn’t want to lose either of them, but might have to. You couldn’t be effective in this line of work if you cared too much about a colleague.
“I’m out of here,” Tom said. “Get the wheels moving, Matt. I’ll catch you later.”
“Was it something I said?” Pete asked Matt, a little peeved that the DCI had walked off without acknowledging his and Marci’s arrival.
“No. I think he’s just a little shell-shocked. He’s not used to being up and about in the wee small hours’,” Matt said to them both. “Why don’t you two go inside and look at how some citizen gets his rocks off. And Marci, take plenty of pictures.”
Marci delved into a pocket for her digital camera. “Smile, boss,” she said and took a shot. The flash blinded Matt. He nearly snapped, but bit it back. “If I come out looking like a hunk, I want an 8x10 glossy of that,” he said, instead of bollocking her.
They all grinned, then got to work. Investigating violent death was what they did.
CHAPTER TWO
It was after she stopped wheezing and flopping around that he removed the penlight torch from his mouth, went through her bag and found the slim address book. He recognised a few of the names, including a bigwig MP who had been on the box a lot and was an arrogant, self-opinionated bastard. He chuckled to think that the balding old fart had to pay to get a decent lay. On a whim, he tore out a few pages and stuffed them into a pocket of his boiler suit with a gloved hand. Maybe he could fuck up the politician’s life. As he recalled, Nigel
Villiers was always running off at the mouth about family values and community spirit. No doubt his wife would not be amused to find out where he hung his trousers on some of the nights he was supposedly at a late sitting in the House.
He checked the lockup thoroughly. He had left nothing. The balaclava, clothing and gloves were a safeguard to his leaving any trace evidence that the morons would painstakingly search for. Even the cigarette ends were all retrieved. Murder was like flying. Taking off and landing held the most potential risk when travelling by air. And with murder, the abduction and then leaving a killing site was the same. Once he had quit the area, he was home free. He was the police’s worst nightmare: a murderer who only took prey unknown to him. His victims could not be traced back to his door. There was absolutely no way he could be connected to them.
He slid back the switch on the barrel of the torch and let his eyes grow accustomed to the murk before opening the door and surveying the immediate area. A car backfired in the distance, but the coast was clear. He walked away from the graffiti-covered garage block, across the narrow street that was fronted by condemned terrace houses, which were no doubt now home to rats and to the flotsam of humanity that had opted out of society and now lived on its underbelly, like fleas on a dog.
Once in the back of the nondescript green panel van, he removed what he thought of as his killing suit. Even changed his shoes. Put everything into a plastic carrier bag before climbing over into the driver’s seat.