by Owen Nichols
“Dunno.”
“Because then it would be a foot.” Anders snorted with laughter, coffee spilling from her nose as she fought to control her fit of giggles.
“That’s terrible,” she declared as she wiped coffee from her chin. Aaron shrugged.
“I don’t get it.” Cassie started to explain the joke when Anders’ phone rang. Still cleaning her spilt coffee, she tapped the phone and Mal’s voice came through the speaker.
“He’s posted a new blog. Just come up. Get to the Isle of Dogs now.” Switching the phone off the speaker with an apologetic glance at Cassie, she stood up and walked away from the table.
“What’s going on?”
“Jesse will explain as you go, just get moving. We may have time to save him. Barry’s on the way.” With a click, he was gone. Anders paused for a moment, gathered her thoughts and grabbed a rucksack from her room, putting her keys, phone and wallet in there. She wedged a blue tooth device into her ear and set her phone as she reached deeper into her cupboard and pulled out a Kevlar vest with the word Police emblazoned on it. She then buckled a belt around her waist with her cuffs, spray and ASP baton attached, yelling through to the kitchen as she secured the straps.
“Cassie, I need your bike. You can take the truck.” Cassie rolled her eyes as Anders swept past, giving Aaron a kiss on the forehead and Cassie one on the cheek.
“That rust bucket! Something breaks every time I look at it!” Grabbing Cassie’s helmet and leathers, Anders ran out of the flat, calling Jesse and sprinting down the steps three at a time, struggling into the helmet and jacket whilst trying not to trip. Jesse picked up immediately.
“We got some screwed up shit here,” he said, not bothering with pleasantries. Anders knew him well enough to know that he was shaken by what he’d seen online. Anders burst through the door at the bottom of the stairwell and ran to Cassie’s bike, a BMW S 1000 RR that she’d bought for Cassie on her eighteenth birthday. Revving the engine, she spun the bike around and raced out of the building, leaning low into the turn as she sped through the early morning traffic.
“Where am I going?” she asked.
“Docklands Museum, I’ll guide you.”
“Why the rush?” Anders sped through traffic lights, used the bus lanes and ignored basic traffic courtesies as she rode. Were it not for Jesse’s description of events, she’d have been grinning with joy.
“Read the blog to me,” she said while several cars beeped loudly as she cut them up in her haste.
“No way man. It’s too disturbing. I read it once and I feel all dirty. Like I need to take a shower.”
“Get Abi to read it to me then, just let me know what I’m heading into.” As she neared the location, Abi read the blog. Anders frowned as she listened.
“It’s a different tone to the last one. He seems more unhinged here. The message is different, yet close enough that most folks won’t discern the difference.”
“I agree,” said Abi. “I don’t think he means what he says at all. He’s just getting kicks from what he does and is trying to legitimise it, get others to join his sick fantasy and exonerate him. I’ve checked the web and he’s building quite a cult in just a week. This goes on any longer and the disaffected will flock to him even more.” Anders grimaced inside her helmet as Abi passed over to Jesse.
“Just around the corner now. Should be a building next door to the museum,” said Jesse who paused briefly as he scanned the news channels on one of his screens. “Heads up, it’s on TV. Camera crew just pulling up ahead of you now. There’s a few folks around the door trying to get in. They look…er…”
“Fanatical,” said Abi in the background.
“Yeah, fanatical. Or bat shit crazy. Take your pick. Barry’s a few minutes behind with a van full of Met’s, got caught up in traffic. Mal is another ten. I’d wait if I were you.” Anders shook her head as she rounded the corner and slowed to a halt by a statue of Robert Milligan, who stood proudly outside the museum.
“Can’t let them compromise the scene,” replied Anders as she stepped from the bike and strode across the cobbled paving towards a posse of men and women who were beating at a large wooden door on the building next to the museum. To her right, the sun sparkled off the Thames in glittering beams that reflected sharply off the large windows that adorned the old fashioned warehouses that lined the dockyard. They’d been renovated and the ships removed, but the upscale vibe to the area couldn’t disguise its heritage. Anders would have loved to have spent a peaceful day here with the kids, but had rather more pressing matters at hand. She unzipped her jacket and let it drop to the floor to give herself more freedom of movement and show her Police Vest.
There were around fifteen of them and they’d read the blog. It was the mix of people that surprised her. A business man in a suit there, a spotty looking teen here and a housewife among the crowd. They were cheering as a large man in a denim jacket succeeded in pulling the lock from the massive doors. Aware that a film crew was watching her, Anders shouted over the crowd.
“Police! This is a crime scene and you are now trespassing on it. Back off and leave this area immediately.” The large guy turned at her shout and stared at Anders belligerently through beady eyes, his neck and shoulders thickly muscled but his belly large and round. He swatted an elderly man aside as he moved towards Anders, narrowing the gap quickly.
“We don’t recognise your authority to govern,” he snarled. “Haven’t you heard love, we’re in the middle of a revolution.” Anders sighed inwardly as she approached the group. They had fanned out as she drew near, flanking her sides and giving her little room to move except backwards. She stopped a few feet from Beady Eyes and unclipped her baton. She was acutely aware of the news crew filming the scene from a safe distance and kept her voice low.
“There’s no revolution,” she said. “Not today.” He stepped forwards threateningly and clenched his fists.
“There’s a change coming. You won’t be able to oppress us for much longer. He’s done this for us to see. We need to see what he’s done.”
His words emboldened the crowd and they advanced on her. In the background she could hear sirens as her colleagues raced to catch up, stuck as they were in the morning traffic. She didn’t think they’d get here in time. Shifting her stance and lowering her centre of gravity, she thrust out her hand and the baton extended itself with a threatening sound, full of menace and ill intent.
The crowd paused as Anders, silent and still, stared hard at Beady Eyes, daring him to step forward. Jesse’s panicked voice burst through her headset.
“I’m watching you live on TV! Be nice, be nice, be nice.”
To the sides, Anders saw some of the bolder fanatics close in on her. Still staring at the large man, she assessed her options calmly. Choosing her course of action, she took a steadying breath and prepared to move.
Before she could act, the dockyard front was bathed in flashing lights and a cacophony of sound as Barry skidded round the corner in a large van. As he screeched to a halt, the back doors flew open and a squad of officers in riot gear poured out, advancing on the crowd who dispersed rapidly. Barry leapt from the vehicle and sprinted to Anders as the large guy turned to run. Anders was faster and stuck out her baton. It tangled his legs together and sent him crashing to the floor, his forehead taking the brunt of the impact.
Too groggy to get up quickly, she knelt on his back and immobilised him with her speedcuffs. They had a thick plastic handle instead of a chain and she used that to lift his arms and force him to his feet, pushing him towards some officers who’d arrived to help. The rest of the group had been rounded up and were being loaded into the back of another van for questioning. Barry gave her a wry look.
“Making friends I see,” he said and passed her a Glock 26. She checked the clip and chambered a round. Though police officers weren’t armed in the UK, there were armed units and McDowell had made sure that both Barry and Anders’ credentials and training made them eligibl
e in specific circumstances.
“You know me,” replied Anders. “I’m a party a minute gal.” Barry chuckled before sobering up quickly as he eyed the door. He’d also read the blog.
“Ready?” he asked. Anders gave a curt nod and they moved quickly to the entrance, Anders switching off her blue tooth as they moved. The door was set deep into a stone arch and there were no visible windows on the building. It hung ajar slightly and Barry nudged it open further with the tip of his pistol, flashlight held in the other hand, weapon resting gently on it. The interior of the building was dark, the gloom sucking the light from their torches. Anders, clicked the safety off her Glock, the noise gleefully signalling malicious promise.
She moved in and slid to the right, giving Barry free space to enter while she offered covering fire. He tucked left so that they were no longer framed by the light from the door. Using their flashlights, they could see that they were in a large warehouse that was completely empty apart from a large metal shipping container in the middle. An unnerving silence smothered the large space and Barry felt a chill as he eyed the container. Looking to Anders, he saw a focused expression on her face and drew comfort from her professionalism.
Flanking the metal box, they circled it before coming back round to the front. It was roughly twenty metres long and ten wide. Anders gave the nod to Barry and he pulled the large lever on the door, tugging it open silently. He stepped back as a red glow ebbed from the container, allowing Anders to quickly move in. She stopped short at the macabre scene inside.
Sergeant Boyle was still alive.
Pieces of him hung from the ceiling like some twisted mobile, swinging gently in a breeze the door had created as it opened. Boyle’s fingers had been glued to the walls in a criss-cross pattern and his feet had been stapled to the floor in a penguin stance. Boyle was shackled to a metal chair by his neck. His limbs had been removed and he was propped against the chair by steel wire sown through his torso. His eyelids had been sliced off as had his nose and lips. Several drips hung beside Boyle, litres of fluids and antibiotics pumping through him.
The smell was horrendous and Anders wondered at how he still lived, mewling noises coming from his ruined body. The odour was that of rotting flesh but one that had been dipped in formaldehyde to slow the decaying process. Barry came in behind her, weapon held high, but he lowered it as soon as he saw Buckland’s work. He stood silent for several heartbeats, both of them too shocked to move. Anders had seen the worst that humanity had to offer and still had the capacity to be horrified by it.
As Barry moved towards Boyle, he holstered his weapon and stepped around him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. In the red light, the tattoos on his arm seemed to writhe with a life of their own. A silent tear fell unknowingly from Anders as Barry gave her a hard stare.
She knew what he was saying.
“I’ll do it,” she said softly. Barry shook his head sadly. Neither wanted to be the one to abdicate responsibility. In that moment a bond was forged between the pair as deeply as if they had fought together on a battlefield. Placing his hands softly around Boyle’s head, he gave a sudden jerk and a loud snap echoed around the container. Barry stepped away from Boyle’s corpse and walked out of the container. He spoke to her as he passed.
“It’ll be a few minutes before Mal gets here. You do your thing.” As he left, Anders took out her headphones and placed them in her ears. She hesitated before pressing play, knowing what it meant. She would not turn from it though. She would gather the evidence, build a picture and relive the scene. She would do to Boyle what Buckland had done to him again and again in a twisted time loop until she had what she needed. As she moved around the room, a part of her wondered at the cost to her own soul.
Chapter 2
A grim silence smothered the warehouse as Helen and Ben stepped into the container. Anders was already inside and she lay a comforting hand on Ben’s shoulder as he paused in the doorway, too shocked to fully process what he saw. Helen, experienced as she was, also paled and suddenly looked vulnerable. They’d all seen death and horror in their work, but sometimes they saw things that they knew they’d never forget, that would haunt their dreams for the rest of their lives. They worked knowing this and accepted the consequences because they knew that what they did mattered. They were driven to uphold the moral values of the law regardless of the cost to them. They knew all too well that its function was to enable free expression whilst providing protection for everyone. It was its fundamental and guiding principle and Buckland had warped and twisted its purpose to legitimise his barbarism.
“How long’s he been here?” asked Mal, looking ill as he gazed around the container in shock. It was everyone’s worst nightmare made real.
“There’s forty body parts glued to walls and hanging down from the ceiling,” replied Anders. “If his blog is correct, then that’s forty days. And nights I guess. Seems he has a messiah complex, which fits in with the more religious aspect his last blog took.” Abi had taken one look and blanched, turning around unsteadily and going to sit in a van outside. Her voice cackled through the coms.
“He’s taken too much pleasure in this act. The first killing was brutal, but served a very specific purpose. Almost a necessity in his eyes. This act is more polarising. It’ll turn those intrigued by his ideology away from him, but make those rallying to his cause more fanatical. I don’t get it.”
“Were assuming there’s a rational mind behind this,” warned Mal as he watched Helen step gingerly to the body on the seat, grimacing at the ruined mess. Ben, unsure of where to start, began by taking photographs of each body part from several angles, the flash of the camera bright in the poorly lit container and reflecting off the mirror that Buckland had placed in front of Boyle.
“What I don’t get,” said Jesse through their headpieces. “Is why we’re processing this scene. We all know Dickland did it. We should be finding him.”
“He may have been careless,” replied Mal. “Left something of use.”
“What? Like a note he’s written to himself of where he’s hiding because he’s so damn crazy?”
“Something like that. Why don’t you find out why this building isn’t on record as belonging to Buckland. I want to know who or what owns it. Hopefully, that’ll give us something useful.” Staring at the body parts dangling from the ceiling, he shook his head sadly. He couldn’t fathom the mind that could do this.
“How did he live for so long?” he wondered aloud, turning his attention to the corpse itself.
“Drugs and antibiotics, probably mixed in with coagulants as well,” answered Helen as she moved around Boyle’s corpse. “Buckland was careful too. Sawed through the bone, then cauterised the arteries. I’m guessing I won’t find any painkillers in that cocktail either,” she said sadly, peering at the drip bags. As Helen examined the torso, her eyes narrowed and flickered to Anders, then Mal.
“Neck’s broken,” she said. She put a hand on his torso briefly. “Still warm. Inexact, but I’d say it was recent.” Mal gave the body a thoughtful look before turning to Anders.
“Let’s give these guys some space. We’ll head back to Scotland Yard and I’ll liaise with McDowell, while you and Barry chase up the ownership of this place.” As they left the container, Mal paused in the open space between that and the door leading outside. Switching off his headset, he bade Anders do the same. He looked hard at her, close, so he had to look down.
“If Boyle is recently dead from a broken neck, then I can only assume that Buckland was here moments before you. That would mean that I would need to send out search parties from this location and scour the area. That would require a lot of manpower and time, which is something we don’t have enough of.” His eyes searched her face, trying to read Anders’ passive expression, but she gave him nothing as the silence stretched out. He turned to the container and considered it for some time as the flashes from Ben’s camera spilled out, a white light to chase away the ebbing red that seeped insidio
usly from the door. Eventually, he nodded to himself and turned back to Anders.
“I’d have done the same.” He spoke so quietly, that Anders wasn’t sure that she heard it. He gave her arm a gentle squeeze and strode towards the door, his masculine scent lingering in the still air as she watched him go. When he’d left, she let out the deep breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
Chapter 3
Anders parked the bike next to the squad cars in the underground bay, ignoring the salacious stares from the Met officers as she took off her helmet and strode towards the stairwell nestling in the corner.
Down in the Hub, Jesse greeted her with a cheer.
“Well look who it is! It’s the sexiest, most famous police officer in the country!” She grinned broadly at his good cheer and sat on Jesse’s table, facing him. He pointed at the screens behind her and she swivelled to see that he was watching Sky News, BBC News and the ITV News on several different screens. They were all showing her stand-off with the crowd and subsequent tackling of Beady Eyes.
“They’re loving you,” said Jesse, chuckling as they asked who this mystery officer was. Anders sighed. She hadn’t wanted a high profile in the UK. It was one of the reasons she’d had to leave the FBI as it had affected her ability to work.
“Dammit,” she said and slid from the desk. “That’s the last thing I need.” She snaked her way through the tables and pushed open the door to the ladies toilets, her temper grim. It was well lit and clean, with several cubicles lining the side. Opposite, there was a large mirror above the wash basins and Anders found Lucy there, dabbing tears from her eyes. A stillness came over Lucy and Anders made to leave.
“I’ll come back another time,” she said, knowing that Lucy wouldn’t like her presence in the female toilets. Normally, she’d have had little time for such insecurities in others, but Anders was still shaken by what she had seen this morning and wasn’t in the mood for confrontation.