Sweet Murder: A Blackbridge Novel

by J. S. Spicer

  When he hung up several pairs of eyes were lasered onto him with fierce anticipation.

  “Guess what car Bryan Doyle drives?”

  Heritage’s eyes lit up. “Max, get to the woods. Lorraine, change of plan. You need to get over to the Doyle place, right now!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  The house looked peaceful, but looks could be deceptive. Dark windows, locked gates, high fencing. Still, this exclusive suburban fortress had its weak points. They had the place surrounded. Lorraine felt like a medieval knight preparing to lay siege to a castle.

  They’d mobilised quickly. Even so, night had fallen by the time the team were in position. Lorraine didn’t mind. If Vine was inside the house, she really didn’t want him to see them coming. He’d always been a step ahead, several steps ahead it felt like. They really needed a break.

  Her radio crackled, a tinny voice over the static told her everyone was in place. They were ready to move.

  In almost total silence they approached the house, converging from all sides, small teams of two or three, the only sign of their passing the occasional rustle or muffled footstep.

  Those at the front of the property were checking in windows, listening for sounds from within. Most of the team approached from the rear, benefiting from the extra privacy afforded by the garden. Lorraine was with this group, taking the lead. She was impatient, itching to get inside, desperate for a result, but they had to do things properly.

  When Bryan Doyle’s PA had confirmed he drove a vehicle that was the same make and model as the one from the CCTV, they’d wasted no time springing into action. A split task force, one team heading for the Doyle property, the other for the clearing in the woods. Lorraine wanted Vine to be here, feeling secure in the house, taken by surprise, shut down and put away.

  She barely dared to think about Carrie. Privately she knew she hadn’t given the girl enough respect, not when Carrie’s knack for unearthing information had been so pivotal to many of her own cases. It was one thing to be good at finding information, Carrie’s IT skills were a real asset in that respect, but it was a genuine gift to be able to sift that knowledge, separate out what was important, weed out the really crucial nuggets of data. That’s what she did. Carrie saw beyond the facts and figures, beyond the text and pictures and video feeds. She was an information bloodhound.

  As she waited in the darkness, Lorraine vowed to show Carrie more respect in future. She hoped she’d get the chance.

  A shadowy figure crept back to her position; Denning, she guessed by the size of him.

  “The patio door’s unlocked. We can go in through there.”

  “Got it,” she whispered back. An open door meant they wouldn’t need to employ the Enforcer. Whilst the battering ram was a great piece of kit, she was pleased they could sneak in quietly instead.

  The adrenalin in her system increased, making her skin tingle with the anticipation.

  With Denning and two other constables at her back she approached the patio doors on swift, silent feet. Lorraine eased open the sliding door, painfully slowly so that it didn’t make any sound, then vanished quietly inside. Within moments other officers streamed in behind her, one of them immediately going to open the front door to let in the rest of the team.

  Sixty seconds after crossing the threshold stealth was abandoned, replaced by the element of surprise and sheer numbers. Officers with bobbing, probing, torchlight were exploring every inch of the place. It took less than five minutes to ascertain nobody was there.

  The disappointment was almost overwhelming, but it wasn’t a complete waste of time. Shortly after entering the premises Lorraine was sending Max a text.

  ‘Evidence of Vine at house, but he’s not here now. Car’s missing! Found his scrapbook too.’

  She read it over twice before hitting send. It was enough to tell Max all he needed to know. His hunch about the car was correct. Vine had taken Carrie using Bryan Doyle’s vehicle. Now it was up to Max.

  Lorraine lowered herself into the desk chair in Doyle’s study, staring down in disgust at Vine’s scrapbook. She hoped Max wasn’t too late.

  **

  She’d lost all track of space and time. Every movement caused her pain, but she didn’t dare stop. The ties binding her ankles and wrists rubbed and dug ever further into the soft flesh as she inched her way through the undergrowth. Carrie was aware of the growing slickness around her sore limbs. She was bleeding.

  Every sound, movement, breath of air, sent shocks of terror racing through her body. She was dirty, bloody, exhausted. Only pure adrenalin kept her moving; the primal need to survive.

  There wasn’t a shred of light, nothing except the stars. She kept following that one, low and bright, tried to keep going in a straight line, aware as the sour taste of defeat filled her senses, that she was latching on to something so unimaginably far away that it might as well not even be real.

  Something, a root or rock, struck her knee as she dragged herself along. She toppled, the darkness adding to her disorientation. She banged her head, hard. It awoke her earlier agony from Vine’s blow to the back of her skull. Carrie groaned, curling into herself, feeling bile rise. Something sharp stung her cheek. She started to move her head away, but then had an idea. Instead she sought the jagged edge beneath her, rubbing away at the cloth bound around her mouth. It didn’t cut through, just scratched spitefully at her cheek, but the cloth felt looser. She moved on, squirming a little further along, now seeking other stones or thorns. A cluster of sturdy twigs became her best friend when she managed to latch one of them beneath her gag. After a few jerky attempts there was a faint ripping sound and the material that had been so tight around her face went slack. With an upwelling of relief Carrie found she was now able to use her tongue to push the rolled-up gag out of her mouth.

  For a moment she lay still. Though her limbs weren’t free, it was such a relief to be able to open her mouth to the air around her. She breathed in and out, feeling freer somehow, even though her circumstances hadn’t really changed.

  It was a moment or two before she realised she could hear furtive footsteps. Her heart almost stopped.

  She froze, too terrified for a moment to risk moving, to dare making any sound. Carrie strained to make out which direction the footsteps were coming from. There was no mistaking there was somebody out there. This wasn’t the scurrying of an animal nor the wind creaking through the branches. It was too methodical, and, despite the best efforts of the person to move stealthily, in the night-time silent woods each sound carried. Except the darkness distorted space and direction, confusing Carrie. Not until a twig snapped so sharply it had to be nearby did she move. In her bound state and blind to her surroundings she didn’t even try to be quiet now, she was just desperate to get away.

  She must have been in the shelter of a large tree, because no sooner did she begin frantically dragging herself across the uneven ground than to her left she saw a darting beam of torchlight.

  He would find her.

  He would kill her.

  Crying again, she still didn’t give up. She tried again to stand, pushing herself up she tried to move her feet; the instinct to run overwhelming good sense. Reckless and off-balance Carrie tumbled backwards, falling back onto the ground, hard. Her left wrist took the brunt of the fall. Carrie cried out as pain bolted through her wrist.

  The footsteps were coming nearer.

  She looked to her left. Sure enough the torch beam she’d seen was rapidly bobbing towards her. Carrie turned to her right, seeking a way out where she knew there was none.

  Another light winked at her from that direction. Watching it in shock for a second she saw it was another torch, further away, but also heading in her direction.

  Then, just beyond it, another beam of light appeared.

  There was more than one person out there!

  Which was Vine though?

  Throwing all caution to the wind Carrie began to cry out, even in her weakened state her voice fil
led the space beneath the dark branches.

  “Here! Help me. Help!”

  She was still looking to the two most distant points of light. Two people together had to be the police, or help of some kind. All throughout the case there’d never been any suggestion that Felix Vine was anything other than a loner.

  But it was the person to her left who was closest, closest by far. Still calling out to the others she heard him, felt him, come thundering up behind her.

  Carrie glanced over her shoulder, terrified, only to be dazzled by the glare of a torch in her face. She tried to shield her eyes, tried to stifle the tears that were now flowing freely.

  A figure loomed over her. Carrie tried to call out again but her breath caught, trapped in a cage of fear.

  “Carrie?”

  Suddenly the light was averted, dropped to the ground, and the figure knelt beside her. Two strong arms wrapped around her.

  “It’s OK, I’ve got you.”

  She went limp with relief, falling gratefully against Max Travers’ shoulder, and let the tears flow.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  Flight 508 landed just before midnight.

  Through the sleepy-eyed crowd streaming into the arrivals lounge, one person was wide awake, alert, and hurrying towards the exit as quickly as he dared. Bryan Doyle had thrown a few things into a carry-on bag; he had no time to waste on luggage collection. Nicole hadn’t been pleased, but she’d get over it. He’d left her and Harry, safe if not entirely happy, to enjoy the rest of their vacation.

  He had more important things to attend to.

  Stepping through the automatic doors and into the relatively cool English night, he headed straight for the taxi rank. He was already keying a number into his phone.

  It took three attempts. He was sitting in the back of a taxi, weaving its way out of the airport complex, before she finally answered.

  “Jasmine. It’s me, Bryan Doyle. We need to meet. Tonight!”

  The hotel he chose was cheap, part of a chain of identical hotels dotted around the country. Anonymous, unremarkable, and several miles outside of Blackbridge.

  He was lying on the bed, fully clothed, his eyes resting on the flickering TV but not really watching. Next to him local newspapers were spread out over the covers. He was waiting.

  Jasmine arrived just after 2am.

  She wavered on the threshold. Bryan could feel the nervousness radiating off her.

  “Thank you for coming. Please.” He stepped back, holding the door wide. Jasmine hesitated, glanced once over her shoulder, then slipped inside.

  “Is this wise?” she asked, as he quickly shut the door.

  “We need to talk, Jasmine.”

  She glanced at the papers on the bed, then at the TV. He muted it, leaving just the image. It was tuned to the news channel.

  “Why did you ask me to come?”

  Doyle looked at her, incredulous. “Why?” He sat on the corner of the bed. “Felix bloody Vine, that’s why!”

  Jasmine looked around the cramped room, selected a hard-backed chair in the corner. Lowering herself into it she held her handbag in her lap, arms wrapped around it, legs tight together, shoulders hunched, curled like an animal in fear.

  But when she spoke her voice was steady, low. “There’s nothing we can do, Bryan. The police will catch him soon enough. Then this will all be over.”

  Doyle shuffled to his right so he was sitting directly opposite her, locked eyes. “I’m sure you’re right. And, what happens when they catch him? What do you think he’ll tell them?”

  She shook her head, exasperated. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about your brother, Jasmine. I’m talking about Justin’s death.”

  “No-one’s going to ask about that. It was just an accident.”

  “Really? Are you so sure?” Doyle sat back. Jasmine was burying her head in the sand. That wasn’t an option here, but she was rattled. No surprise there, not when a childhood pal of theirs was terrorising the town by carry out a series of senseless murders. Doyle’s instinct was to yell, to bully, to make Jasmine see things his way. But she looked too fragile. She would bolt. That could make things worse.

  Kid gloves were required. Doyle could be soft, play nice, when necessary.

  “Jasmine.” His voice dropped to soothing, they were friends weren’t they? “I wish this would all just go away too, but Vine, he’s obviously insane.”

  She nodded, unclenched very slightly. “I know, all those poor people. I don’t understand it at all.”

  “Neither do I, but...” Doyle paused, she needed to know, to give her a push, a nudge, but he didn’t want to frighten her any more than she was already.

  “What? Bryan, what is it?”

  “The victims, the people Felix has killed, Jasmine, they have all lived in Station Road at one time or another.”

  There it was, fear blossoming behind her eyes, welling up, threatening to overflow.

  “Specifically,” he left the bed, knelt near to where she sat, willing her to listen, to keep it together. “They all lived at number 11, at my old house.”

  Her fear stuttered beneath a cloak of confusion. “How do you know?”

  “It’s still my house. My father never sold it, he just rented it out. Then it passed to me. The agent who takes care of things contacted me after the visit by the police.”

  He watched as she absorbed this information, trying to make sense of it, to make it all fit together into some cohesive shape or design.

  “I still don’t understand why though.” It came out as a weary whisper. Doyle needed her to stay strong. He reached for her hand.

  “Neither do I, not really. How can we understand the motivations of a madman? But, Jasmine, he’s come back to Blackbridge, and he’s fixating on my old house. That means his head is in the past, not the present. It’s like he’s reliving our time together all those years ago. Whatever sick game he’s playing, whatever plan he thinks he’s carrying out, I guarantee, we don’t want him talking to the police.”

  She snatched back her hand. “What the hell are you suggesting? What can we do about it? We don’t know where he is. My God, one of us might be next on his list!”

  “Not you.”

  “What?”

  “Not you, Jasmine. He wouldn’t ever hurt you.”

  Her doubt was swirling again.

  “Think about it, Felix adored you.”

  “That was years ago…”

  “Besides, you didn’t live at number 11. I mean it; Felix thought the world of you. He would never, ever harm you.”

  “Maybe Felix, the twelve year old boy, wouldn’t harm me, but now he’s a middle-aged serial killer. It’s not the same. Nothing is the same.”

  “He’s stuck in the past, don’t you see. That’s why he came back to Blackbridge. He’s trying to recapture something from his childhood. You could always make him do whatever you wanted, remember. Jasmine,” Doyle paused for effect, making sure he had her full attention now. “You do remember that dare of yours, don’t you? The one about holding Justin under the water?”

  Jasmine stood up, so suddenly that Doyle rocked back unsteadily for a moment, before rising to his own feet.

  “Whatever you’re about to suggest…”

  He’d expected a strong reaction, known that bringing it up would hit home hard with the sting of guilt. Bryan tried to take her hand again but she balled it into a tight fist.

  “What if Felix did it? What if he went through with the dare?” he asked.

  She was shaking her head violently now. “No, you’re just guessing now. There was no sign of foul play when Justin died. Bryan, you know I wasn’t serious; I didn’t mean anything by it!”

  Doyle shrugged and backed up, giving her some space. “Of course. But what if Felix talks, about that day? What if his case goes to trial, makes headline news, and then he tells the whole world about what you said. What do you think will happen to us?”

  “But it w
as a stupid joke. And it wouldn’t affect you anyway.”

  “I was there too, wasn’t I. Jasmine, I’ve built up a reputation in this town. I don’t want Vine sullying my good name, or yours for that matter. Why should he drag us down with him?”

  Tears sprang into her eyes, she did nothing to impede the track of one across her cheek. Jasmine stepped to the window, stood close to the drawn curtains, breathing deep and fast. She stood there for a long time, thoughts tumbling, scenarios playing out, possibilities stretching before her mind’s eye. Gradually her breathing calmed, slowed. Doyle stood a few feet away, still, quiet, not daring to disturb her. He watched her from behind, thought he saw some of the tension drop from her shoulders. Finally, eventually, she turned back around.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  **

  The fury had taken hold, warping his grasp on reality. The world fogged up with his rage, his surroundings became submerged in it, diluted into unimportance. It made him reckless, but he passed like a ghost, unseen, unchallenged.

  Thwarted, in a few measly minutes.

  How had they known about the woods?

  Felix had it all planned out. Stop at the roadside, carry the unconscious woman to the clearing, bind and gag her, then go back to hide the car. The road was closest to the clearing, it wasn’t busy, but he was being prudent. A secluded track a mile further on was the perfect place to conceal the vehicle.

  He’d just turned into that trackway, just killed the lights, shut off the engine, when he saw distant headlights. Felix had hidden amongst the trees, watching with climbing frustration, as police unfurled from gathering vehicles, cars, a van. They swarmed stealthily into the woods across the road from him.

  They knew!

  He considered sprinting back down the road, through the trees, rushing to the place he’d left her. With speed and luck he could still finish what he came here to do. It was so very tempting. He was ready, eager. To delay, to be denied, it stung. Again, once again, Felix had to play the balancing game. Giving in to his urges had opened the world to him like nothing else ever could, but, he still felt it wise this time to listen to the warning voice whispering in his head.