by Matt Drabble
There was a long pause as the woman confirmed his suspicions that while she might be an excellent manager, she was clearly no journalist.
“No, you’ll be there at 5pm sharp, my office at The Globe,” she bristled in reply.
Randall started to argue but found the line dead as the woman hung up. In truth, he didn’t mind her manner as at least she was easy to read and her motives seemed fairly clear. He was useful to her so she would be useful to him.
He kicked off the blankets from the bed and recoiled as his own pungent aroma wafted upwards with the flap of the bedding. He was pretty ripe and determined that a shower was his first port of call.
There was a bag on a chair opposite the bed and he remembered that he’d actually managed to purchase a few new clothes from an all-night supermarket that he’d passed late last night. He inspected the contents and was pleasantly surprised that his choices were okay and looked to be about the right size. As he undressed, he noticed again how thin and frail he was growing. His ribs were protruding like a wannabe model’s wet dream and his appetite was non-existent, at least as far as solids were concerned. Also in the bag was a plastic bowl of salad made for lunches, complete with its own plastic fork. His drunken self was obviously more concerned with his health than his sober one.
He showered quickly and thought about the case. He thought about Tom Holland and the guilt that he himself carried for leaving his once friend behind after the original Crucifier case had come to an explosive end. Tom had been left with a dead partner, a stomach full of anger and a finished career, as his bosses were more concerned with public perception than justice. His friend had to sit on his rage as Jane Parkes was ushered aside after getting his partner Karl Meyers killed, while the suits above dangled Tom’s pension and health benefits above his head.
He thought about the police cover up of Jane Parkes’ involvement and how she had just walked away without a blemish on her character. He also wondered bitterly just how much money she would have made out of her deception. And he thought about how much money he was going to make for his own estranged family. But he had to be honest; this was going to be about bringing down their house of lies, as much as building up his own son’s future.
----------
Alan Holmes drove home with a satisfied grin stretched across his face like a cat that had just found the keys to a dairy.
He thought about the woman from the pet store and knew that he had played that one just right. He had been charming and a little befuddled. She was a fierce woman who looked like she could handle herself and he was certainly up for the challenge. He had subtly managed to work in a line about having an ex wife, letting her know that he was single and available. In fact, just because he wasn’t married anymore didn’t exactly make him single.
Ever since his own divorce, he had discovered a whole world of lonely women eager to rediscover their youth and sexuality after a lifetime of boring marital chains. The internet dating world was a hotbed of divorcees keen to take out their frustrations at being replaced by a younger model. But he had soon grown tired of shooting fish in a barrel - women with too much hair dye, make-up and bitterness. He had also discovered that the best wingman in the world was his young daughter. Her angelic face attracted more fish than his ever could.
He had taken a shine to the pet store woman the first time that he had laid eyes on her. She wore a ribbon that he felt only he could see, and although she had spooked him a little with the finding his wallet trick, his unease had passed the following day like the fading of a bad dream that seemed silly in the daylight.
The car suddenly started to lurch and splutter. His forehead crinkled in confusion. The car was expensive and had only just been serviced. It had been a present from a female admirer, a woman in her late fifties, with too much time and too much alimony.
The traffic had thinned as he had driven out of the town centre and there was no hard shoulder to pull over onto. He rounded a bend as the car started to slow worryingly and he spotted a picnic spot up ahead. He prayed that the car would make it that far as it limped slowly forwards. The crunch of the gravel as he pulled in was a welcome relief just as the engine coughed violently and died.
He pulled out his phone and cursed at the lack of signal. He had breakdown cover with the car as he wasn’t mechanically-minded. He was pondering what to do when a car pulled in behind him and a man climbed out.
Alan’s first thought was that perhaps he’d stumbled into some sordid pick-up spot and that he’d unintentionally given off the wrong signal. But the man waved in a friendly, rather than salacious, manner and Alan relaxed.
“Need any help?” the man called out from a rolled down window.
Alan decided that his choices were severely limited and wound down his own window. “Damn thing just died on me; I don’t suppose that you know anything about cars?”
“Fella, it must be your lucky day,” the man grinned as he climbed out and walked over.
----------
Superintendant Donald Chalmers straightened his tie and admired his reflection in the full-length mirror. He placed his cap atop his head and nodded in quiet appreciation as his brass buttons gleamed. He checked the silver pocket watch that hung from his jacket pocket and saw that it was time, or more accurately it was a little after time.
He walked slowly from his office towards the meeting room where his audience were waiting. He liked to use the large room as a way of proving home court advantage. He had arranged for several of his junior officers to be present in the room, all the while remaining silent. They were under strict orders to show the newspaper woman in and wait silently with her; under no circumstances were they to discuss anything. Of course, it helped that they didn’t know anything.
He entered the room slowly and was pleased to find Ms Marion Ramsey fidgeting in the carefully selected uncomfortable chair. Her face was pinched with barely disguised irritation and he had to hide his pleasure.
“Superintendant, we said 5pm and I’m a very busy woman,” she bristled as he entered.
Chalmers nodded and smiled politely while walking past her without speaking. He strode deliberately slowly towards the back of the room where three officers were waiting, their chests puffed out like stone gargoyles. He could feel the woman’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his head and he waited a few moments longer before dismissing the officers.
He turned back and saw that the woman had not come alone. Sitting next to her was a man slumped at the desk looking like he should be in bed. His face was painfully thin and his clothes seemed to dwarf his frail frame. “Apologies for making you wait,” he said courteously, taking a seat opposite them - one that was deliberately higher than theirs.
“Look. I’ve come along today in good faith,” she began.
“You’ve come along today, Ms Ramsey, because I’ve instructed you to do so,” Chalmers interrupted her. “And I had thought it best if we spoke privately,” he said pointedly. “Leaving the lawyers out of it for now.”
“This is Randall Zerneck. He’s the lead journalist on the story,” she replied.
“Ah, Mr Zerneck, so nice to meet you,” Chalmers said, trying to cover up his mistake.
The man looked up and nodded in reply, looking like he was going to throw up at any minute.
“Now. Let’s get one thing clear right from the start, Superintendant,” Ramsey said, striving for control. “The Globe is under no obligation to share any of our findings with you as far as the original Crucifier case goes. If you want access to our files then you’d better bring a warrant. I can assure you that we have printed nothing that is untrue and what we have printed is also in the public’s best interest.”
Chalmers sat by with his hands folded together on the long table. His body was still and his face pleasant. He slowly opened the file in front of him and pulled a sheet of paper from inside dramatically as the newswoman watched on. “Ms Ramsey, I have no intention of getting into some kind of test of strength with you, a
nd a messy court case is not going to benefit anyone.”
“Is that a warrant?” she asked, looking nervously across at the sheet of paper that he was holding and studying theatrically.
“No, Ms Ramsey. As the old TV show used to say, ‘this is your life’.” He looked up and was glad to see that a look of concern had passed across her face. “We have a very important job to do here, Ms Ramsey, and we will not allow anyone to compromise our investigations.”
“The public have a right to know,” she replied haughtily.
“The public are sheep to you, Ms Ramsey. You tell them what to think with a splash of gory colour to sell your wares and you care little for the aftermath. You’ll quite happily ruin a man’s life today with a full front page and then print a two-line retraction on page 27 tomorrow.”
“And I suppose that you’re the champion of truth and justice?” She laughed bitterly.
“No, Ms Ramsey. I think that the public should be treated like mushrooms - kept in the dark and fed bullshit. The public have a horrible knack of getting in the way of my job. So here’s the bottom line. The first time that you get in my way, I’ll bury you,” Chalmers said, flapping the sheet of paper gently. “And I think you know with what.” He slid the sheet back into the folder, just as she leaned forwards to try and catch a glimpse at its contents.
“Are you threatening me?” she exclaimed, her eyes wide.
“Ms Ramsey, we’re the police. We don’t make threats, we make promises.”
He sat rock still in his chair as the woman and her reporter got up and left. It was only when they were safely outside that he let out a long sigh of relief. His stomach was churning at the confrontation and it was a million miles away from what he was used to, but he had his orders. Commander Barrett had made it crystal clear that he needed to get his house in order any way necessary and without sharing the details. Oh, how everyone at the top table in the police force loved their sausages, but none of them wanted to know how they were made.
He knew that the Ramsey woman would have been recording their meeting, but he had planned for it and used a little scrambling gadget from the counter-terrorism boys to ensure that their chat was private. He had been prepared for the woman but not the reporter, some half-dead-looking old fool called… He checked his own mental notes … Zerneck. Randall Zerneck. He took out his small notepad and jotted the name down for further investigation. His search into Marion Ramsey had yet to bear fruit, but judging by her reaction to his blank sheet of paper and empty threat, she had a skeleton of some substantial size in her closet, one that he needed to find.
----------
Jane breathed a long sigh of relief as she entered her cottage alone. The two young girls who had fallen at the hands of the new Crucifier had left her for the time being and she was glad to be free of their psychic drain.
Despite her shift only running from 2pm to 6pm, Jessica had let her go early as Marty had offered to cover. Jane knew that she had caused her boss to look a little funnily at her after she took off after the man, who had turned out to be Alan, in the store that afternoon.
There had always been an unspoken understanding between her and Jessica. They both knew that Jane wasn’t in the job for the money and didn’t need to work. As such, their relationship wasn’t quite employer and employee, which made it all the more awkward when Jessica had to reprimand her for her brusqueness with the posh lady who’d been squawking on about bird food. She hoped that she wouldn’t have to leave the job as it was a pleasant place to work and she enjoyed the company. Although she wouldn’t be too sorry to leave Marty behind, there was a conversation with the boy that she was still going to have to have, one that she wasn’t looking forward to.
A knock at the door brought her back to earth, and thoughts of Marty and Alan blew away on the wind. The door was knocked on again and she knew who it was by the authoritative rapping.
“Ms Parkes, it’s DI Meyers,” he announced formally from the other side of the door.
Jane opened it and found the detective standing uncomfortably, his eyes darting around from side to side as though expecting to be caught in a salacious act. “I think it will be okay if you call me Jane,” she smiled. “At least in private.”
He stepped inside as she motioned for him to do so. “I’m still not 100% sure why I’m here Ms…, Jane,” he said awkwardly, “but I prefer to let people know where they stand. I don’t believe that your so-called gift is real, but my father did and right now my gut is saying that you’re not the con woman that I’d pictured you to be. I think that you definitely believe what you’re saying, but maybe that’s more dangerous.”
She led him into the lounge and pointed towards the chair opposite the sofa for him to sit. “I’m sorry about your father, Danny. I liked Karl a lot and I would have given anything for him not to have died that night.”
“If you start telling me that you have messages from him from beyond the grave, then this conversation’s over.”
Jane smiled at the man’s assertion. She could see a lot of Karl in Danny, a lot of his best qualities, and she knew that Karl would have been proud of the man his son had become.
“I feel like I need to walk on eggshells around you, Danny, where your father is concerned. But I will say this. I never really knew my own father. He left when I was just a child. Karl took me under his wing and - for better or worse - I saw him as a surrogate father. It broke my heart when he died, when I was directly responsible for his death…” Jane suddenly realised that she had started to weep as the old wound tore open, ripping its flimsy bandage. “He spoke of you often; he was very proud that you were following in his footsteps. I think that you were serving in London at the time but he always knew that you were going to go far,” she managed to finish.
They sat staring off into space for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts.
“Okay,” Danny said finally. “What can you tell me? And I’ll try and keep an open mind.”
“Well, first things first. Let me say that none of this is an exact science.” She held up a hand as his face registered a familiar knowing scepticism. “I know that it sounds like a cop-out. An excuse to use whenever anything doesn’t happen to turn out the way someone like me might suggest, but that’s the truth. It’s not like a TV station that I can just switch on and get the latest updates. Think of it more like a wandering signal that fades in and out. One minute your getting a Siberian weather channel, and the next it’s a Japanese cooking show. Most things are random and don’t make any sense, but sometimes I can zero in and catch enough that can help.”
“How did you help my father?”
Subconsciously, she stroked her mother’s brooch as she thought. “Occasionally, when he was stuck on a serious case, he would bring me in after the forensic team had left the scene and the place was deserted. Sometimes I would be able to catch a glimpse of an echo left behind. On a good day I might be able to see the last few moments of a victim’s life through their eyes.”
“What the hell is that like?”
Jane pondered the question for a moment, still stroking the brooch. A few days ago, she thought that she knew everything about her gift, but now she was dealing with a whole new set of parameters. “It was okay. It used to be that I could see but I couldn’t feel anything … like watching a bad movie.”
“Used to be?”
“This time, with this killer, it’s all… different somehow. It’s why I had to find you, why I had to get involved.”
“In what way?”
“This time it’s like someone else is in control and, for whatever reason, their gift seems so much stronger than mine. Now I’m not looking through the victim’s eyes, I’m looking through the killer’s. I can feel what they feel; I can smell and taste things as well and it’s all too real.”
“What’s with the brooch?”
“It belonged to my mother; it kind of acts like a focusing aid. It helps me concentrate, I guess.”
“And feel
closer to her? I’m guessing that she gave you this…, gift?”
“Yes. It came from her side of the family.”
“And your father?”
“He left when I was young.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I seem to have nothing but good memories of him to keep me company.”
“This…, this vision thing,” Danny said, searching for the word. “Is it just a one-way street?”
Jane smiled at his brain as it worked like his father’s. “I tried it once,” she admitted. “I followed his trail back to the source and tried to get a peek at the guy’s reflection in a bathroom mirror. He smashed it and gave me this,” she said, holding up her still bandaged hand.
She felt his eyes viewing her carefully, evaluating her words, expressions and body language for any telltale signs of deception.
“What can you tell me about him?” he finally asked.
“No physical description, I’m afraid,” she replied slowly, arranging her thoughts. “You guys will know better than I do about height and strength I’m guessing, from the autopsy reports. I can say, however, that he’s quick and nimble and he’s big and strong but lean with it. He moves in an athletic fashion and he’s always in control. He’s older too, at least around our age if not a little older. He’s mature and intelligent, and careful - he’s very careful. He’s not going to make mistakes at a crime scene.”
“Do you know how he’s choosing them?”
“There’s a bloom on the victims, a special kind of glow that only he can see, but I doubt if the victims are connected to each other.”
“What about the original Crucifier case?” Danny asked pertinently.
“Honestly, I don’t know what the connection is, but I think that there is one.”
“Do you think…, Jane? JANE?” But Jane was suddenly gone as her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped on the sofa.