by Marc Horn
‘Has he stolen anything of value? Anything important?’
‘Nah, all I get is bills.’
‘Well... at least that’s reassuring.’
I reckon I can expect to receive another letter soon.
8
Thursday 22nd of August. I have the flu and have to work a fucking early shift. Five-thirty a.m. and I can barely lift my toothbrush.
*****
‘I can’t believe you came in to work. You should have called in sick.’
‘Noah, I never go sick. Piss-takers go sick.’
‘But... Razors, you won’t be as effective; you can barely keep your eyes open.’
I fill my lungs with air. ‘Barely is enough. Means I can still look for this prick. Can’t find him at home, can I?’
‘What are you taking for it?’
‘Nothing. Medication’s a con. My immune system will get rid of it.’
We walk underneath Putney Bridge and into Bishops Park. Both of us wear plain clothes. I spot a target. ‘Two kids, ten o’clock, see ’em?’ Noah doesn’t respond. ‘Climbing into the bushes, see ’em?’
… ‘Yes!’
‘Let’s sit on that bench over there.’ I nod to my right, to a bench beneath a sprawling weeping willow which will offer a good view of the bushes while keeping us partially obscured. When we get there we pretend to read our newspapers.
‘What are they doing?’ Noah asks.
‘What d’you think?’
‘I don’t know... going to the toilet?’
I sigh. This virus has devoured my sense of humour. Normally I’d find such naivety funny. ‘Try wanking or smoking.’
… ‘But they only looked eleven or twelve years old!’
‘Stop talking. Read the paper. I’ll watch ’em.’
Gravity pulls at my eyelids like a tight anchor. I have to prop them up with my thumb tips. Shit, I feel bad. Every couple of minutes my body collapses, wanting to fall onto the grass and sleep, and it takes all my strength to resist and regain my composure. I manage to do this quickly, before I slump too far and Noah notices.
The bush is still, though I can see wisps of smoke rising from the leaves. I wish something would happen. I can’t sit here like this much longer. This flu is super strong, made me as weak as a kitten. I have to get up, move around, fight it...
‘Anything happening?’
‘They’re still smoking. I haven’t clocked anyone.’
Come on, you son of a bitch, there’s two of them, sitting targets. It’s been five days, you must want it again. Come on, it’s your fucking M.O. you fucker!
Got to keep eyes on, got to. I’ve got to get to him before he gets to them. I told Noah we’re simply surveillance, that armed response were in the vicinity and waiting for my signal to go. I lied. I want this arsehole myself. If I see him I’m gonna pounce. Since the murders I must have followed six or seven pairs of potential victims, mostly in my own time.
My chin hits my chest again, stretching my spine. I force my head up. Stay awake, Razors, stay the fuck awake!
‘Something’s happening on the radio!’ Noah says.
‘What?’ I open my jacket and press my ear to the inside pocket, where my radio sits.
‘The killer! He’s–’
‘All right, I can hear it myself.’
The fucker’s struck. We missed him. Eel Brook Common, about a mile away. ‘Let’s go,’ I shout, dropping the paper and running towards the steps that lead to Putney Bridge.
‘How far is it?’ Noah asks, running next to me.
‘Half a mile.’
My legs are as heavy as iron and my head’s spinning, but I have to get there, have to see what happened. I fumble about in my pocket for the earpiece and then shove it in my ear. The cops on scene update the control room with what they’ve got as Noah and me climb up the steps. I wince as I ascend, my thigh muscles burning like coals, and when I get to the top I have to inhale hard.
One! He killed just one! What the fuck! That’s not his M.O. – it has to be someone else, has to be!
‘Another shooting, but this time there’s just one victim,’ Noah shouts.
‘It’s not The Poet!’ I scream, as I force myself onwards. We cross Putney Bridge, turn into New Kings Road. Noah wheezes as we run and lags behind. I feel like smashing him in the face, probably would if I could spare the energy. I’ve got the flu and he can’t fucking keep up!
Sweat pours from me and I’m all over the place, veering in and out of the road, cars beeping me, my brain wobbling like jelly, and then finally I’m there, stumbling against the cordon tape. ‘Chris, come ’ere!’ I try to shout, my voice instead raspy and inert. Chris was the first officer on scene and is standing inside the crime scene next to the dead kid. There are about fifteen officers here. The kid is male, about ten years old, and wears a sky blue t-shirt and shorts. I take a deep breath and repeat the command, as loudly as I can.
Chris acknowledges me and runs up to me. ‘Head shot, just like yours,’ he informs me as Noah stops next to me, blowing out his arse.
‘Can’t be the same guy, he goes for two–’
‘It’s the same one,’ Chris cuts in, shaking his head. He lifts up a gloved hand and shows me a piece of paper. Just like last time, words written in fountain pen on blood...
I clench my fists and grit my teeth, turn to Noah who stares incredulously at the note. I pull him away and walk off.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Noah says, splaying his fingers in front of him.
I say nothing, my fury giving me strength.
‘It’s you, Razors! You were right!’ I nod. ‘Do they know?’ I ignore him. ‘Razors!’ He grabs my arm, stops my momentum. ‘Have you told them? The murder squad? You haven’t, have you? You’ve got to! Children are being murdered!’
I break free of his grip and grab him by the collars. ‘This is my fucking case! I know what to do, you prick! Just keep your mouth shut! You wanna help then go to the gym! You’re a disgrace!’ I release him and walk towards the nick, my heart thumping and sweat bubbling on my face. ‘Let’s go,’ I hiss.
Slowly, he follows me. ‘You need to go home, Razors. You’re not well.’
I continue walking. It feels like I’m knee-deep in wet sand.
‘You’re a great police officer, Razors, but you have to tell them about your involvement in this. More children could be murdered otherwise.’
I feel my strength rapidly depleting. If it slumps much more I fear I’ll lose consciousness. I have to stall Noah quickly. I need his cooperation, but I don’t have the strength to argue.
‘I know who the murderer is,’ I lie.
‘What? … Who?’
‘One of them.’ I flick my head backwards, to the group of officers at the crime scene.
Noah runs up to me, moves up to my face. ‘A police officer?!’
I nod. ‘That’s why there’s no DNA match. Police officers’ DNA wasn’t taken at training school when they joined.’
‘It’s… it’s... absurd... Why on earth would one of our colleagues do this?’
‘That’s why they’ve trashed the crime scene.’ Incompetence is actually to blame for that, but it lends credence to my claim. Noah had seen how tight my crime scene was, and in comparison this one is poor. Officers get distracted, that’s all it is. They shouldn’t but they do, and that’s how it gets contaminated by other bodies mincing about.
‘So... what are you going to do about it?’
‘I’m gonna go home and think how to present my evidence to the CID.’
‘And what am I supposed to do?’
‘Go and help them with the crime scene. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
I leave him there, probably staring at me in a stupor.
I get a taxi home, a sensible but expensive decision. God knows where I’d end up on public transport in my state – probably dead. Seems a lot of people are out for me, including The Poet...
First thing I plan to do is write in my journal what was written o
n the bloody note, but when I get home I see my phone is flashing red.
The message, left by a man, is loud and clear, with prominent pauses between stop, writing, and journal.
9
I check my watch. Three a.m. Thirteen straight hours of sleep – that’s outrageous, shows how fucked I was. I switch the lamp on, pick up my journal and read out my latest entry.
‘Get pills for flu from boy in blue.’
Who is this piece of shit? He knows me, he’s mocking me, evading me... outwitting me...
He’s fucking with my head, just like this journal freak. They must be the same person. No, I can’t think like that, I have to stay open minded. The Poet manipulated my thinking after his first kills, and that’s why I ignored the possibility of a lone victim. Don’t get me wrong, I know I’m not to blame for that kid’s death; after all I’ve been working outside my remit to find the killer – I’m a front-line response cop and the case belongs to Special Branch – but he fooled me and I take that very personally. And now I’m withholding vital information. Noah’s right – I’m an integral part of this case, and that makes things very difficult. I can keep it quiet, but expecting Noah to do the same is selfish. Selfish, because my justification for silence is a desire to catch the killer myself. See, I’m a hunter. I hunt for prey like a hawk, and when I set my sights on something, I never fail to catch it.
But I won’t let some kid die to satisfy my personal expectations. If I felt that speaking out would help the case, I’d do it. But it won’t help. I’d get probed, dissected until every contact I’ve ever had is checked out, then I’d get wired up, tossed around as bait until the killer strikes again. But this killer isn’t stupid. He knows me and knows I’m no puppet. I honestly believe it will hinder the investigation, and by that I mean my investigation – the most effective one. The quickest, best solution is within my grasp alone.
I feel a lot better. All I must do is quell my constantly rising anger in order to stay focused. First I must determine who knew I had the flu. Yesterday was Thursday, and before that I had two rest days. The flu hit me on Wednesday, and only Cassandra knew about it. When I went to work on Thursday, no one except Noah knew I was ill, as I went out with him pretty much straight away.
So Noah and Cassandra... Neither can be implicated in these murders, I’m sure of it. These victims are kids, for Christ’s sake!
To satisfy his rhyme, The Poet had to find and kill a kid dressed in blue. He was always going to kill some kid, but that one was specifically chosen because of his outfit, because it fit the rhyme. The Poet also knows I don’t take medication, but then a lot of people know that.
He’s unpredictable. What I do know is that he’s playing a game against me and that when I lose, some kid dies. Well, I’m not going to lose again. And he should fear what he’s gonna lose...
I also know that he strikes near me when I’m on duty. He’s clever and efficient. No one’s heard gunshots, so he must have used a silencer at close range. He’s arrogant enough to wait around with the victim and write a fucking poem. All three murders occurred in parks in broad daylight. People were around in Eel Brook Common, but no one realised what had happened. Unbelievably no one saw anyone with the kid. It happened beneath trees, on the periphery, but still, the fact that no one saw anything is nuts.
Fuck that. It doesn’t matter. This is a test of self-belief. I’m gonna kill this fuck.
At eight p.m. I’m still waiting for Tone in The Three Kings on North End Road. Fat bastard’s always late. I drink some of my beer and think about work. Pretty uneventful today. No appearance from The Poet. I spent all shift hunting him. Even though his first three murders were spaced five days apart, I’d not allowed myself to loosen up – predicting patterns had proved too costly.
I’d had to offload Noah onto someone else for the day. Wouldn’t have been able to justify searching parks for the killer if I knew he was a colleague, would I? I told the boy that I was tied up with meetings for the day. Pleasingly, this had shut him up and I’d noted a satisfied look on his face. He was happy to believe that I was doing the right thing.
I arranged this meeting while sitting on a hill in Pineapple Park. Tone had plans but I told him he had to be there. He said he would.
‘How’s it going, mate?’ Tone grabs his pint from the table, pulls out his chair and sprawls out on it. A right cockney geezer – jewellery, tattoos, fags and designer clothing.
‘Too slow. But that’s where you come in.’
‘Come again?’
I pass him an envelope. He clamps it in his sausage fingers. ‘This is yours. Easiest two grand you’ll ever make.’
His mouth sags as he flicks the notes with his forefinger. Then he looks up, a spark in his eye. ‘Right, thanks, see ya later then!’
He stands up, catches my smile and laughs. ‘Anyone ever tell you’re a real funny bloke?’ I ask.
‘Well, that’s what I call easy.’ He sits back down. ‘What’s it all about then?’
I drink some more beer and then exhale. I meet his eyes with seriousness in mine, and lean closer. ‘This will never go further than us two.’ He nods. He knows me and I know him. We trust each other. ‘All you have to do is follow and record me on camera.’
‘Town Hall cameras?’ I nod. ‘For ’ow long?’
‘I dunno. I reckon that money should cover two days. Agree?’
‘Yeah, yeah, that’s sound.’
I conceal a smile. Tone would never say it was too much money, no matter how much it was. That would be soft in his book. Doesn’t bother me. I’ll pay good money for peace of mind. ‘If it goes on longer, I’ll pay you the same rate. Now listen, Tone. You have to follow me permanently until I tell you to stop. And it goes without saying that you have to do it.’
‘Yeah, yeah, course.’
‘So it might not be the easiest money you ever make. You’re gonna have to forsake any breaks. No raiding the chocolate machine, you greedy fuck.’ He smiles. ‘After I tell you to stop following me, I’ll arrange a time to meet you in the Town Hall. We’ll watch the CCTV together. I should be able to give you a specific time and place I want to view.’
‘Right.’
His face is rigid. He’s reliable, Tone. Loves getting involved, loves the adventure. I had a roll around with some slags once and he jumped in and put the boot in. Broke a few ribs. Beautiful.
‘After that you’ll have one more task. I’ll let you know what that is when we get there.’ He glances down at the cash. ‘That’s two days’ work, right? Or anything up to two days. You go on more than that then you’ll get more.’
That big, dirty grin stretches his face. His stubby, red nose and flared nostrils are identical to Maple’s, my superintendent’s. ‘Let’s ’ope it’s a long one then!’
I flash a brief smile, and then lean in again. ‘This is the most important thing you’ll ever do for me, Tone.’
His humour fades and he’s totally focused again. He won’t fuck this up. That’s why he listens so intently. ‘When we starting?’
‘Tomorrow. Prince Street. Ten o’clock.’
‘It’s fucking busy then. Cars and people.’
‘I know. That’s when it’s got to be. I’ll be wearing a red t-shirt, white cap and blue joggers.’
‘Hokey dokey.’
I finish my pint. ‘You gonna be able to deal with the curiosity? Working alone, all hours–’
‘Hey, I’m the fucking boss!’ He swallows a couple of mouthfuls of beer and slams his glass on the table.
I nod. ‘I’ll head West along Prince Street. I’m gonna walk the whole length of it if I have to, and I’m gonna go in the shopping mall–’
‘We don’t have the cameras in there, that’s–’
I hold up a palm. ‘I know, don’t worry about it, just pick me up as soon as I come out the other doors.’
‘Okay.’
‘That’s it. Simple.’
‘You gonna tell me what it’s about?’
‘
You’ll find out in time. And when you do, your mouth has to stay shut. When we’re done with this, we bury it.’
He nods forcefully. ‘Razors, you know you’ve got fuck all to worry about there.’
‘Yeah I know.’
10
I lift the dumbbell above my head, cupping my elbow with my empty hand. Then I bend my arm, lower the weight to the middle of my back. I pause a second, then steadily lift the dumbbell until my arm is fully extended. One rep down.
I’m gonna kill The Poet. I can get away with it. The prick doesn’t have Goater’s safeguard − revenge will not be suspected. The Poet’s susceptible to attack. Ferocious attack.
I feel my right tricep burn as I strain to push out the final rep. Then I switch arms and work on my left side. Weights normally satiate my aggression, but tonight they will not. Nothing other than The Poet’s dead heart can now satiate me. He is my life, my purpose and my hunger. I have never killed a man, but I know I’m ready, know I’ll perform.
My left side’s weaker. I growl through the last three reps. That muscular imbalance irritates me; when I look in the mirror I can see it – the symmetry is not quite true; my right side is bigger.
I feel so strong. The weights are easier than they should be. There’s so much blood pumping through me. I know what’s coming and I want it so badly.
Tomorrow’s a night shift. He’s not struck at night before, but that means fuck all. Neither has he struck so soon after a previous murder, but that means fuck all too. It would be inconsistent and surprising, which is exactly what he is.
I lift the dumbbell from my lounge floor and curl it with my right arm. When I curl, I rotate my wrist anti-clockwise so that when the movement is complete, the back of my hand faces my shoulder. This way I work both the front and back of my forearms, and my biceps and wrists. I keep the rest of my body totally still while I train. Assisting exertion with disassociated body parts is fatal. Amateurs do it all the time and pay for it with injury and limited progression.