THE BLEEDING HEART KILLER an absolutely addictive crime thriller with a huge twist

by Bill Kitson

  The sound on the disc was clear, far too clear for Gus. Both prisoners were conscious, both voices mingling as they pleaded for their release. They fell silent after a while, and the reason became clear when a third figure appeared in shot. The newcomer was unidentifiable behind the shapeless disguise of a surgeon’s gown, to which they had added a surgical mask and cap. The silence lasted a short while longer as something was attached to Dale’s body. Harvey peered at the screen, then paused the disc once more to inspect the object closely. He could not make it out, but a pair of wires gave him a clue. He took an involuntary step back and gasped in horror. The killer had just attached a pair of electrodes to Dale’s genitals.

  He reeled away, unable to watch the screen, unable to bear the piercing screams. After a couple of minutes the sound stopped, and he risked another glance at the TV. A voice, anonymous behind the mask, said calmly, ‘Tell your father to obey.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Dale squirmed as he snarled his defiance.

  There was a long silence, long enough for Harvey to hope that the torturer had relented. Then he saw his son’s body arch in pain as the screams began again. He covered his ears in a vain attempt to blot out the sound of Dale’s torture, but to no avail. Just as he was beginning to think they would never cease, the screams stopped, and the voice, quietly insistent, said, ‘Tell him.’

  The defiance was still there, but far weaker, as Dale told his tormentor, ‘Rot in hell.’

  ‘I will save that privilege for you.’

  This time the screams didn’t last nearly as long, for after only a moment, Harvey heard his son shout, ‘OK, OK, I’ll do it.’

  Harvey saw his body relax slightly, and after gulping for breath, Dale gasped, ‘Dad, Dad, do whatever they want. They’re insane. You must do it, please, Dad.’

  The other voice added, ‘Your instructions are in the envelope. You have seventy-two hours to comply.’

  After a second or two, when Harvey was treated to a view of his son’s face in close-up, and could see the agony etched on his features, the screen went blank.

  * * *

  Roy Archer was wondering why he’d bothered applying for the job at the Netherdale Gazette in the first place. His ambitions as a reporter were much higher, but the reality was in stark contrast to his dreams. Having been ‘released’ by his previous employer, he had found work within the newspaper industry difficult to come by. The growth of TV news channels and the proliferation of websites carrying worldwide stories had been matched by a sharp decline in local and regional dailies. Many had switched to publishing on a weekly basis; more had simply closed their doors. With his credit cards pushing the limit and his bank manager keen to see a reduction in Roy’s overdraft, he had no choice but to accept the post when it was offered.

  In blaming his bank manager, Roy was still wincing from the pain of his last interview with the man, who had opted for sarcasm to point to the desperate state of Roy’s finances. ‘I would prefer the old system,’ the manager told him, ‘the one where you banked with us. Looking at these figures, it seems that we now bank with you.’

  Archer was keen to make an impression, one that would enable him to continue to work while paying back his many loans, and a good story would be the best way of attracting other, more prestigious employers, who would realize the potential he had to offer and present him with a salary commensurate with his talent.

  Back in the real world, he was irritated by the complete lack of progress in building a story about the recent spate of murders. No significant facts had emerged, or if they had, they were being guarded by the police with a secrecy that would have done credit to MI5. It was without doubt the juiciest case he had ever had to handle, and he couldn’t even get a sniff of what was going on.

  He was at his desk, moodily drawing aeroplanes on a sheet of paper that should have been used to construct an article, when the phone rang. He listened to the caller, and within seconds his aeronautical designs were forgotten. The conversation lasted for over five minutes, during which time Archer’s sole contribution was an occasional grunt or monosyllable notifying his agreement to what the caller was telling him. He ended the call with his most meaningful contribution. ‘OK, I’ll be with you in an hour. May I bring a photographer along? No, OK, I’ll come alone.’

  * * *

  Nash heard the phone ringing, even though he was in the shower. He ignored it, arguing that if it was important, the caller would either leave a message or phone back. He’d finished bathing and was in the midst of shaving when it rang a second time, causing him to nick his chin with the razor. He muttered something vaguely impolite and walked through to the bedroom to answer the call.

  ‘I rang earlier. Where were you? Have you seen this morning’s Gazette?’

  ‘And good morning to you, Jackie. I was in the shower when the phone rang. No, I haven’t seen the Gazette. I find it tends to make the paper go all soggy if I take it in the shower.’

  ‘You’d better get over here immediately.’

  ‘Is it that urgent?’

  ‘It isn’t a matter for debate. The chief wants you here ASAP.’

  ‘Is it in order for me to finish shaving and get dressed, or shall I come as I am?’

  ‘Just get here, and hurry up,’ Jackie snarled.

  ‘Are you planning to tell me what it’s about?’

  ‘I prefer you to read the paper first.’

  ‘Should I bring Mironova along?’

  ‘No, we want to see you alone. We’ll be speaking to her and the other members of the team separately.’

  It was over three quarters of an hour later that Nash walked into Fleming’s office. He could have got there sooner, but her attitude on the phone had annoyed him. The chief constable was also there, and both women looked extremely agitated.

  ‘OK, what’s this all about?’ Nash asked them as he took the vacant chair.

  The chief constable handed Nash a copy of the paper, and Nash’s eyes widened with surprise as he read the article that was splashed over the front page under the headline “I Confess”.

  The reporter, a man Nash had never met or spoken to, had detailed an interview with local businessman Gus Harvey, in which it was alleged that Harvey had confessed to having arranged the murders of both Jack Burrell and Wes Stanton, plus the bribery of a senior police officer, two jury members and a witness, to secure the acquittal of his son and a friend who had actually committed those crimes.

  The article didn’t end with the conclusion of the interview, but went on to outline the connection to the recent murders. These had been described in graphic detail by the reporter, in the process accusing the local police force of corruption and inefficiency. He stated that their inability to apprehend the monster who had carried out these gruesome attacks left serious questions over the fitness for purpose of the detectives in charge of the inquiry.

  The article went on to suggest:

  “The potential for further slaying cannot be downplayed. Although the police are not officially prepared to reveal the macabre details of the way these grisly murders were carried out, we have learned the horrific details. The removal of the victims’ hearts indicates the work of a crazed psychopath, one who is prepared to kill, and kill again, in such a cold, calculating manner. There is nothing to say that the killer’s bloodlust has been satisfied, and while he remains at large, no member of the public can feel truly safe on our streets.”

  Nash finished reading and looked up, to see both senior officers watching him carefully.

  ‘Well?’ O’Donnell demanded. ‘What do you have to say about it?’

  ‘I’m astonished. I can’t understand why Harvey has suddenly got the urge to confess to crimes that happened years ago, except that he might be in fear of his own life, or that of his son. We suspected his involvement, but thought there was little chance of being able to prove it.’

  ‘I’m not referring to that,’ the chief constable snapped. ‘What I want to know is how that reporter got hold of the i
nformation about how those murders were committed. There was supposed to be a total media blackout on the injuries the victims sustained. As things stand, I can only think of one possible source for the leak, and that is either from you or a member of your team. And out of those, from where I stand, you are the most likely to have given this information out.’

  ‘Hang on. I’ve never met this reporter. I haven’t even spoken to him on the phone.’

  Jackie Fleming jumped in. ‘Perhaps not, but you do know his boss extremely well — intimately, as I recall. Well enough to share the same bed for a considerable amount of time. Would you care to tell me if and when you last spoke to Becky Pollard?’

  ‘I have spoken to her.’ Nash didn’t elaborate.

  ‘Did you discuss these murders?’

  The implication wasn’t lost on Nash. He was furious. His displeasure split between the lack of trust displayed by O’Donnell and Fleming, and the invidious position Becky had placed him in.

  ‘Yes, we did talk about them,’ he told them quietly.

  The chief responded. ‘I have to say that I am extremely disappointed in you, Inspector Nash. I know Becky is an extremely attractive young woman, and that has always been your weakness, but you should have remembered that she is also a professional reporter. It is obvious that she used you to get an exclusive angle to this story. What were you hoping for? Was it that by giving her this titbit you would tempt her back into your bed? Your complete lack of discretion has placed this whole investigation in jeopardy, and also put other peoples’ lives at risk. I was very tempted to remove you from the inquiry altogether, but I will give you one last chance to redeem yourself. You’d better hope you find the killer before he strikes again, because if you don’t, I will have no alternative but to suspend you and report you for professional misconduct.’

  O’Donnell stopped speaking, obviously expecting a reply. Instead, Nash stood up and walked over to the door. He turned and fixed both senior officers with a cold stare. ‘You said you were disappointed in me. That disappointment cuts two ways. Not only am I saddened by your obvious lack of trust, but you have also made me painfully aware that neither of you would make very good detectives. The reason I say that is because of your total failure to gauge the situation correctly. The extent of your miserable failure is pinpointed by the fact that you omitted to ask the one question you should have put to me.’

  ‘What question is that?’ O’Donnell’s voice was raised, almost to a shout, as she got to her feet.

  ‘The fact that you don’t know merely underlines my point, and I am certainly not about to enlighten your ignorance. However, I will give you a clue, by saying that perhaps you ought to ask Becky. You should be able to do that — after all, ma’am,’ Nash said, pointedly, ‘she is your goddaughter. In the meantime, I shall be reassessing my position within the force, because I’m not sure whether I can continue to work alongside people whose judgement is so flawed.’

  Both women flinched as the door slammed violently shut, leaving Fleming to wonder if she ought to check to see if it had splintered.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ O’Donnell asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not even sure if we have a detective inspector anymore. What do you think the question was? The one we didn’t ask?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea. Either Mike was being clever, or he’s right and we’re useless detectives.’

  ‘Maybe you should do as he suggested and ask Becky.’

  ‘I will do if I can get hold of her, but I know she’s not at work at the moment. She’s taken a few days off to complete the removal of all her stuff from London. She had to wait until she found a flat.’

  Outside, Nash paced up and down the car park, seething with indignation at his treatment. After a few minutes he’d calmed down sufficiently to phone the Gazette, only to be told, ‘Ms Pollard is unavailable at present. Can anyone else help?’

  He’d given his name when making the call, and wondered if Becky had left instructions to deflect any calls from him. He tried her mobile, but it went straight to voicemail, so he gave up the attempt and drove back to Helmsdale. One look at his colleagues told him that they too had read the offending article. Ignoring Andrews and Pearce, he signalled Mironova. ‘My office, now,’ he snapped.

  ‘Do you want a coffee, Mike?’ Pearce asked.

  ‘No, I do not want a coffee.’ As the door closed behind Mironova, Viv and Lisa looked at one another.

  ‘I’d say that the excreta has collided with the ventilator,’ Pearce suggested.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The shit has hit the fan.’

  ‘Big style, I’d say,’ Lisa agreed.

  Once they were alone, Nash recounted the details of his painful interview at Netherdale HQ. Clara listened sympathetically as he poured his heart out.

  ‘I can’t believe they thought you’d do anything as stupid as that,’ Clara told him. ‘It’s the sort of basic mistake only a probationer would make. As for that suggestion God made, I know you’d do almost anything to get at the truth, but not to the extent of blabbing confidential secrets to a newspaper reporter. Didn’t they ask you outright if you’d told her about the hearts being removed?’

  Despite his anger and the smouldering sense of injustice, Nash laughed aloud. ‘You’ve just proved how much better a detective you are than the two of them combined. That was the one question they should have asked, but they didn’t, because they assumed me to be guilty without sufficient evidence. Gloria asked if I’d spoken to Becky recently, and when I said I had, she assumed the rest.’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d talked to Becky. When was that?’

  ‘She phoned me at home over a week ago. She was all lovey-dovey until I discovered she was simply trying to pump me for inside information. I more or less told her to take a running jump.’

  ‘That was sneaky of her, but that leads to another question. If that reporter didn’t find out those details from you via Becky, how did he get to know?’

  ‘That’s a damned good question. One thing I do know is that it didn’t come from anyone within this office. I wanted Becky to answer that. Unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to want to speak to me. I couldn’t raise her at the office or on her mobile. That may be coincidental, though. Maybe I’m just being paranoid.’

  ‘Why don’t I try and speak to her?’

  Nash gestured to the phone. ‘Be my guest.’

  He listened to Clara’s half of the conversation with the Gazette’s receptionist. ‘Really? Until when? OK, I’ll speak to her then. No thanks, it isn’t urgent.’

  ‘You are paranoid,’ she told Mike as she replaced the receiver. ‘Becky’s on leave. She’ll be back in the office on Friday.’

  As she was speaking, Nash’s phone rang. He gestured to Clara to answer it. ‘Good morning, ma’am. It’s Sergeant Mironova speaking.’ She looked at Nash, who shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid not. He isn’t accepting any calls at the moment. I almost said even from you, but perhaps in view of your accusations it would be more correct to say especially from you.’

  Nash watched Clara’s expression tighten as she listened for a moment, then respond, ‘Yes, I do know how insubordinate that sounds, but I’d tread very carefully if I was you. At the rate you’re going, you’ll have alienated the whole of your CID force before lunchtime.’

  Nash heard an agitated squawk from the other end of the phone, then a calmer tone.

  ‘Yes,’ Clara was now in full flow, her anger apparent as she told the chief constable, ‘Mike did tell me about it, and yes, I do know the question. It was the first one I would have asked, if I thought for one moment that he is capable of doing something so monumentally stupid. I didn’t need to ask because I’m not dense enough to believe that he would behave in such an unprofessional manner. Apart from the lack of common sense, there’s the matter of trust. And, might I add, that if Detective Inspector Mike Nash decides to leave the force, there will be two vacancies here in Helmsdale — if not more!
’

  She listened for a moment or two. ‘Very well, I’ll tell him that. Whether he’ll be at all interested is another matter.’

  She put the phone down and looked at Nash, who was staring at her in surprised admiration.

  ‘Stupid bloody woman,’ she muttered. ‘She isn’t ready to eat humble pie yet, but it sounds as if she’s asked the waiter for the dessert menu. Apparently she was luckier than you and did manage to get hold of Becky, who denies having got the information from you. Gloria reckons that Becky didn’t even know about the reporter having interviewed Harvey. It sounds like Becky’s furious with that reporter. I pity the staff when she gets back. Anyway, Gloria asked me to ask you to phone her when you feel able to.’

  ‘You should have warned her not to hold her breath. Let her sweat for a few days. She’s earned it. Thank you for going in to bat for me, Clara, that was above and beyond the call of duty.’

  ‘You’d do the same for me,’ she pointed out. ‘As I remember, you even took a bullet for me, and damned near died in the process.’

  Nash smiled. He’d all but forgotten the incident, but Clara clearly hadn’t. ‘Yes, we’ve been through a fair amount together, the four of us. Speaking of which, we’d better get the others in here and explain what’s happened. Tell Viv I’ll have that coffee now. When we’ve brought them up to speed, we’ll have to decide what we’re going to do about Gus Harvey. I’m also more than a little curious to know how this Archer character got hold of all that information, especially the heart removal.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lisa Andrews and Viv Pearce listened to Nash in silence, their expressions reflecting their incredulity at what had happened in Netherdale. They looked at Clara with awe when Nash told them what she had said to the chief constable, and when he’d finished, Pearce said, ‘Good for you, Clara.’