by Michael Kerr
Angie yawned. Rinsed her face with cold water and patted it dry. She went out onto the landing and hesitated. The snoring had stopped. It started again, even louder than before. She grinned and went downstairs into the kitchen, poured herself another mug of coffee and returned to the lounge to sit down and put her feet up again in front of the ginormous flat screen Toshiba. The credits were rolling on the cop film. She caught the good looking actor’s name: Brett Duval. Yeah. He was probably christened Walter Goldberg, or Harvey Pratt. Three quarters of all these egomaniacs changed their names to something that they or their agents must think sounded cool. She had once gone out with a guy who was an actor and supposedly on the rise. The highlight of his career had been a walk-on part in an episode of Spooks. Big deal.
Angie picked up the mug, then dropped it on the carpet as a head rose up from behind a large easy chair that was set at an angle in the corner of the lounge. It was totally surreal and unnerving.
The head smiled. Angie thought to reach for the gun that was clipped to the belt at her waist, but froze as the man stood up and pointed a silenced pistol at her.
“No noise, love,” Andy said. “We don’t want to disturb my mother’s ugly sleep, do we? Clasp your hands on top of your head. Do it now.”
Angie obeyed him. She was in a state of near panic. It was Tyler, there was no doubt of that. His hair was longer than in the photograph, and his eyes were brown, not yellow; contact lenses. How had he got in?
“You look like a cow that has just walked into an abattoir and realised that it can’t turn back and find a nice field of grass to graze on: knows that it has shit it, big time. I want you to come off the settee on to your knees, and lay flat out on the carpet. Keep your hands where they are.”
When she had followed his instructions, he came out from behind the chair, removed her gun from its holster and tossed it aside. Used her handcuffs to secure her wrists behind her.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Angie Duke,”
“Are you one of Julie Brannigan’s squad?”
“Yes.”
“That makes you as bad as her, Angie. She insulted me to the press; said some things that will cost her dearly.”
He went into the kitchen, returned after a few seconds and sat astride her back. His weight forced the air out of her lungs, and she could hardly catch her breath. It crossed her mind that he would rape her.
Andy unrolled a couple of feet of the cling film onto the carpet; gently put his hand on Angie’s damp brow, manoeuvred her face up and on to the transparent PVC and began wrapping. Flipped her over, to now straddle her stomach, to be able to see her cocooned face.
Angie was suffocating. Shaking her head from side to side, sucking open-mouthed against the layers of impermeable film. She brought her knees up repeatedly against his back, to no effect.
“You’re dying, Angie,” he said, smiling down at her. “Just try to relax and accept it. Another few seconds and you’ll pass out, never to wake up. Isn’t that fucking awesome?”
The scream that filled Angie’s head began to fade in the distance, and the image of Tyler receded and dimmed. Her last thoughts were of her mum and dad, and of how heartbroken they would be.
Andy waited until she became still and all expression left her dark eyes. It was amazing how such apparently innocuous household items could be employed to kill so efficiently. Having thought that, the writing on the carton did state that the cling film was ‘all purpose’. He wouldn’t argue with the claim. He was totally satisfied, and would not be seeking refund or replacement. He then went upstairs, into his mother’s bedroom.
Sitting down on the bed next to her, he wondered how he had ever had any love for the wretched woman.
“Wake up, you treacherous old cow,” he said, shaking her roughly by the shoulder.
Julie had contacted the Yard, arranged for a trace to be made on the call she had received from the mobile, and instructed that an ARU – Armed Response Unit – and ambulance be dispatched to the address at Snaresbrook. She got hold of Del Preedy, who was in the squad room, gave him the pertinent details and told him to get over there. Ryan was not on duty. She phoned him at home.
He was asleep on the couch, after downing half a bottle of scotch; stretched out with a cushion under his head and dreaming of Julie in skin-tight bike leathers, when his mobile rang. He reached out in the darkness, felt for the phone on the coffee table and spent a second or two vainly attempting to answer the TV remote. He sat up, found the phone and accepted the call.
“Yeah?”
“Ryan, it’s Julie.”
“Julie who?”
“This is serious.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“Tyler just called me at home.”
Ryan was immediately fully awake. “About what?”
“Wanted us to know that he’s been at it again. Claimed that two of Gorchev’s guys attempted to abduct him, to hand him over to Savino’s mob. He said he’d killed one and wounded the other. And the bastard can access our computer system. He knew all about me.”
“Give me the address,” Ryan said. “I’ll meet you there.”
The area was secure when Julie arrived. Ryan had moved fast and was already at the scene.
“What have we got?” Julie said.
“A vic in the boot of the Toyota,” Ryan said, nodding towards the car. “And a guy who the attending officers found taped-up and gagged in the flat upstairs. He’d been shot in the leg. They took him to hospital.”
Julie walked over to the Toyota and looked in the boot. There was a man’s body with a lot of blood on the face and torso.
Ryan lit a cigarette and leant against the side of the Vitari. Reckoned that by the time the techies and pathologist arrived and did what they do, it was going to be daylight. He needed coffee.
“There are four flats,” Ryan said to Julie when she came back to him. “Two up, two down. The old couple in number one say they heard and saw nothing. They were asleep till our lot and the ambulance arrived. Number two is empty. The guy who rents it is away on business. It was in number three upstairs where the action took place. The lock had been shot out of the door, and the security chain cut. Looks like Tyler left in a hurry. He must be travelling light. I’m advised that the young woman in number four is in mild shock. Her name is Gemma Rutledge. She told a uniform that she was with the guy from number three from eight till midnight. Let’s go and see what she can tell us.”
There was a PC outside Gemma’s door. Ryan had clipped one of the new issue laminated ID cards to the collar of his jerkin. It could also be worn around the neck with the beaded chain provided. He only wore it to save having to repeatedly dig out his wallet to show it to every copper he bumped into at the scene.
“I’m Detective Inspector Ryan, and this is Detective Chief Inspector Brannigan,” Ryan said to the worried looking ash-blonde who opened the door to them. “We need to talk to you, Ms. Rutledge. May we come in?”
Gemma nodded and backed-up to one side to let them pass. She closed the door behind them and went into the lounge.
“What’s happened to Toby?” she said. “The other officers won’t tell me anything.”
“Who’s Toby?” Ryan said.
“Toby Carlson. He lives in number three. Will you please tell me what this is all about?”
Ryan settled on a jade brocade sofa without asking if it was okay to. Julie joined him, and Gemma slumped into a chair facing them.
“Just bear with us for a minute,” Ryan said. He pulled a copy print of the photograph of Tyler that his mother had given them out of his pocket and held it up for Gemma to see. “Is that who you know as Toby Carlson?”
Gemma studied the clean-shaven face. How could she not have recognised him? She had seen his photo on the television. But she had not taken much notice. And the eyes were a different colour, and Toby’s hair was longer. He also had a neatly trimmed beard and moustache.
“Yes, it’s him,” she said.
“I don’t understand. He seemed to be so...normal.”
“How long have you known him, Gemma?” Julie said.
“He only moved in last week. I locked myself out of my car, and he opened it for me. I invited him for a meal. I was with him tonight...last night, until midnight. Will you tell me what has happened?”
“As you now know, his real name is Andrew Tyler. He is a professional killer; a sociopath who also murders anyone who upsets him,” Ryan said. “Did he mention any places or names to you?”
“No, Inspector. He said that he was a sound mixer for a music company, and that he had bought his flat. We just ate, had some wine, listened to music, and...and made small talk,” Gemma stopped short of telling them what else they had ended up doing. “He brought me a rose, was charming, and had a good sense of humour. I find it almost impossible to believe that he could be capable of what you say he’s done.”
“He can appear to be how he chooses, Gemma,” Julie said. “Where he lived before, his next door neighbour, an elderly woman, said that he mowed her lawn and would often do her shopping for her. He doesn’t hide away from people, but among them, in the guise of a good and caring neighbour. Of necessity he leads a secret life.”
“It’s not that simple,” Gemma said. “If Toby and this Tyler are the same man, then he has a split personality, because the guy I was with was kind, thoughtful and loving.”
Ryan found the dichotomy alarming. He would have to speak with David Wilde again. How could a savage killer who they knew was guilty of unspeakable acts, be tender and kind-hearted? Weren’t sociopaths supposed to be incapable of such emotions?
“Would you like tea or coffee?” Gemma said.
“Coffee black, please,” Ryan said without hesitation.
“Same, thanks. I’ll help you make it,” Julie said, standing up and following Gemma through to the kitchen.
“You and he made out, right?” Julie said, once out of earshot of Ryan.
Gemma scrunched her face up. Tears ran down her cheeks. Julie held her until she found some composure.
“I thought I’d found someone who might have become very special,” Gemma said, reaching for a tissue to wipe her eyes. “Seems my choice of men leaves a lot to be desired. I feel dirty and used. The bastard took me for a fool, and I am.”
“Maybe not,” Julie said. “In my experience, everyone has good and bad in them. Tyler just has more bad than most. It doesn’t mean that the side of him you saw was an act. I once helped put away a man who had raped and killed six women. He showed absolutely no remorse for what he had done. Turned out he was married with two children. While he was on remand awaiting trial, one of his daughters drowned on a school trip. He was totally devastated. Aged ten years in a week, and became a physical and mental wreck. He genuinely loved his family, but had a dark side that he could not control.”
“What became of him?”
“He got life, served a year, and cut his wrists with a hobby knife. He finally found some peace, I guess.”
“What happened to the coffee?” Ryan called from the lounge.
Gemma and Julie both managed a smile. Gemma switched on the kettle and spooned granules into three mugs.
“Are you and Inspector Ryan supposed to be a secret?” Gemma said to Julie.
Julie frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You look at each other the way my mum and dad do. And they’ve been together for over thirty years.”
“Hey, we’re not that old, but is it that obvious?”
“Yes, to me. But what do I know? I’m the girl who was in bed with Britain’s most wanted man until midnight.”
They drank the coffee, and while Julie and Gemma talked, Ryan got on the phone to David Wilde. Took a perverse pleasure in waking the psychologist. Brought him up to speed with the case and arranged for him to be at the Yard at nine a.m. to discuss Tyler’s post offence behaviour, taking into account his most recent deeds.
Chapter THIRTY
Ruby thought it was Angie. Was it morning already? Angie always checked on her before going off duty. She yawned. More often than not she was up by eight; the time that the cops did the change over. She liked Angie, and would miss her when this was all over. It was like she imagined having a grownup daughter around the house would be. They could talk easily about most things. The other cop, Bill, was also good company. And she looked forward to their backgammon sessions.
When she got her eyes to open and focus, she felt a cold gust of fear enter her heart. She began to shake.
“Why are you helping them, Mum?” Andy said. “I don’t understand why you would do it I look after you; send you money. Does that warrant you turning on me?”
“It...It’s not what you think, Andy,” Ruby sobbed.
“It’s exactly what I think. You sold me out. Gave the bastards a photograph of me. Why?”
Ruby steeled herself. “You’re out of control, Andy. You murdered those young girls in that playground. What harm had they done to you? What have any of the people you’ve killed done to deserve it?”
He did not want to hear it. She didn’t understand. Very few people would be able to appreciate the way he saw the world. Maybe others like him would have his enlightened view of life, and death. He did not need dispensation or approval from God or man to sanction the acts he carried out. Only his needs were of any importance. He was the centre of whatever the universe might be. Everything in existence revolved around him, separate from him, inferior to him, and therefore his to use as he saw fit.
He pushed the silencer up into the loose, sagging flesh under her chin, and stared intently into her eyes. Saw the fear coalesce. This was a moment to cherish. At last he would be free of all emotional ties. This act of matricide would be a rebirth.
Ruby could not move. A certain acquiescence overcame her. What was about to happen was inevitable.
The thunderous detonation in her head mushroomed out like the gaseous cloud of an atomic explosion, and was abruptly followed by nothingness.
The civilian control room operator could not make contact with DC Angie Duke. She did not respond to the radio test call. John Boone was not unduly concerned. She may be taking a dump, or have fallen asleep. He went through the list of officers who were on duties that necessitated an hourly test call. Ticked them off when he had established that their signal was good, and tried Angie again. Nothing. He called the contact phone number. No reply. After a few more attempts to raise her by radio and phone, he reported the detective’s failure to respond to the officer in charge, who arranged for a patrol car to go and physically check on the DC. He also phoned the SCU and informed DC Phil Newton that they could not make contact with Angie.
PCs Norman Parnell and Geoff Stowe got out of the car and walked up the path to the front door of the council house on Woodside Crescent.
“Looks all quiet” Norman said. “Check the back, Geoff.”
Geoff went around the side of the house. The kitchen light was off, but there was a glow from an open inner door that he presumed led through to the lounge. He depressed the handle gently and the door opened. He hurried back round to the front.
“Back door’s open, Norm. Should we go in?”
“The bird in there is an SCU officer on protection duty, you prat. She’s armed. You wanna creep in and get your fuckin’ head blown off?” Norman said, before knocking hard and long on the door. There was no answer.
“Now what?” Geoff said.
Norman led the way back round to the rear of the house. Opened the kitchen door and shouted: “DC Duke, we are police officers. Respond, please.”
No one replied or appeared. Norman could hear music and voices, but recognised it to be coming from a television or radio. Something was definitely wrong. He thought he could smell shit, and maybe cordite. He wished he had a real weapon. The extendible truncheon he drew seemed totally inadequate. He would rather be wearing a Kevlar vest, and be armed with a gun. More and more frequently, he and most other officers were having to
deal with armed and violent criminals. It wasn’t the exception to the rule any longer. Guns and knives were proliferating like rabbits. It was time that all police were afforded the means to effectively protect themselves. Someone had to realise that they were trying to do the job on a very uneven playing field. Maybe when enough cops got gunned down, then some policy maker sat on his arse in the safety of an office would see the light.
“DC Duke, we are comin’ in. We are police officers,” Norman shouted. The last thing he wanted was for some stupid bitch to come awake suddenly and start shooting before engaging brain.
Peering around the edge of the door, Norman saw the body laying on the carpet in front of the TV.
“Christ!” he ran to the woman. Dropped to his knees and dug his fingertips through the cling film. Tore at it frantically, even though he knew he was too late. Could see the emptiness in eyes that were frozen open behind the transparent material.
As Norman breathed into the gaping mouth and began CPR, Geoff got on the radio, reported the incident and asked for backup and paramedics.
She still felt warm. Norman kept working on her; pumping her chest and forcing air into her lungs.
“Check the rest of the house, Geoff,” he gasped.
Geoff went to the foot of the stairs and turned on the light. Tiptoed up to the landing, entered the first bedroom and found the woman’s body. It was a mess. Blood had run down her neck to soak her night-dress, and was pooled in the fist-sized hole in the top of her head. There were dark ropy carmine-coloured lines, clots and threads on the wallpaper behind the headboard and the ceiling above it.
Geoff swallowed hard, backed out and ran down the stairs to where Norman was still labouring at a lost cause, and knew it.
“There’s an old girl in bed with half her brains decoratin’ the fuckin’ wall and ceilin’,” Geoff said, stooping and picking up the pistol that he was sure had belonged to the cop. He knew that he shouldn’t touch anything, but felt safer with the gun in his hand. If some armed psycho appeared, he had no doubt whatsoever that he wouldn’t stop firing until the weapon was empty.