Killer Instinct

by Zoe Sharp

  I sighed, resentful. A couple of uniforms arrived to conduct Marc to the waiting van, but as they took him away I stepped in front of him. There was one last question I had to ask.

  “Why, Marc? Why did you do all this?”

  He paused. “Why?” he repeated, his voice vibrating with the same anger that suddenly lit his eyes. “Like you've just so accurately reminded me – I was born in a slum, Charlie. Everything I have, everything I am, I created myself. I worked for it, fought for it, every step of the way.”

  His carefully modulated accent was dissolving, the flat vocal tones of his long-suppressed Manchester beginnings seeping up through the cracks. “Who are you to judge me when you were brought up in comfort, luxury even,” he jeered. “You’ve never had to live day by day with hunger, fear, desperation.”

  “That’s true,” I admitted, “but that doesn’t excuse what you’ve done, Marc. Making other people desperate, and hungry and afraid doesn’t make it right. Plenty of people have escaped from poverty without resorting to dealing in drugs to do it.”

  “Oh yeah?” he flung at me. “Name one!”

  “That’s enough,” MacMillan put in with that same measured quietness. He nodded sharply to the coppers and they resumed their escort duty. He put a hand on my arm. “Are you sure you’re OK? Would you like me to get one someone to give you a lift home?”

  I thought of the Suzuki waiting in the car park and shook my head. The ride would do me good. I planned to take the long way back to Lancaster. I was weary to my bones, but I knew I needed to get the cobwebs out of my head before I stood a chance of sleep.

  Besides, I realised as I watched the strange trio passing through the doorway, with Marc irrevocably lost to me the prospect of going to bed no longer held quite the same appeal.

  ***

  Surprisingly perhaps, I slept deep and untroubled that night. At around quarter to eight I woke with no nightmare sweats, just a vague sense of deep unease.

  I climbed stiffly out of bed and pulled on my towelling robe, shuffling into the lounge. I registered without undue amazement that there was a small blonde policewoman dozing on my ripped sofa. I left her to sleep and headed for the shower.

  I showered carefully, inspecting the new bruises that were mingling sociably with the fading old ones. My eye was puffy and tender and my back ached like I'd been doing twelve hours of manual labour. My hand had been so sore last night on the ride home that I could barely operate the front brake lever. I'd had to rely on the foot-operated rear brake to do all the work.

  I dressed in jogging pants and an old T-shirt, then moved through to the kitchen, filling the filter machine. I think it was the smell of fresh coffee brewing that finally brought my companion round.

  She sat up, doe-eyed with sleep, and looked round groggily. The change in attitude set off the sort of racking cough only committed smokers have first thing in the morning. When they haven't had the first cigarette of the day to bump-start their lungs. If she thought she was going to light up in here, though, she had another think coming.

  MacMillan had introduced her last night only as WPC Wilks who, he declared somewhat cryptically, was going to look after me. She'd climbed into a panda car and patiently followed my meandering course along the seafront to Hest Bank before doubling back to Lancaster.

  Once we'd arrived she hadn't tried to make our relationship any less formal, standing over me while I chained the bike down at the rear of the building. She took up station in the lounge when I went to bed, and now she was fully awake, she was sturdily back on duty again.

  I had a sneaking suspicion Wilks was there to keep an eye on me as much as to protect me. She must have been two inches shorter, and weighed down with her kevlar vest and bulky uniform. I tried not to let stereotyped prejudice colour my view of her. After all, clipped to her equipment belt she had the same aerosol spray of CS gas they'd used last night to such effect on Len. I dare say Angelo wouldn't prove any more immune.

  It was clear, though, that the Superintendent didn't think Angelo would be stupid enough to come back for me. They were obviously expecting him to be halfway to the other end of the country by now, lying low.

  I remembered the phone call, and the note, and I didn't share their confidence.

  Wilks unbent enough to accept a cup of coffee, taking it Turkish – black with three sugars. She asked me if I minded her smoking, but took my solid refusal without offence.

  I found her presence disconcerting, without really knowing why. I forced myself to go through some stretching exercises to try and loosen up my aching muscles. Wilks watched me with a polite expression on her face, as though I was performing some bizarre ritual.

  “Did you know half your back's gone purple?” she remarked now.

  I turned my head, surprised to see her staring slightly wide-eyed, and realised that my T-shirt had ridden up to expose some of the results of last night's activity.

  “Yes,” I said curtly, pulling the cotton material down again.

  She looked about to say more, but there was a robust knocking on the door. Wilks crossed to it, studying the visitor through the Judas glass for a few moments.

  “It's an oldish-looking feller,” she said after a few moments, adding businesslike, “Would you come and see if you know who it is before I open the door?” I took her estimate of age with a pinch of salt. She didn't look like she'd yet escaped her teens, so anyone over thirty could well qualify for that description.

  I took her place at the Judas glass. It only took a second to identify my caller. It was just the shock of recognition that delayed my response-time. The man knocked again, louder this time, with a hint of impatience.

  “Well?” Wilks demanded. “Do we let him in or not?”

  “I suppose we should do,” I said slowly, reluctantly. “Seeing as he's my father.”

  I stepped back and left Wilks to admit him, looking all official. My father reacted well to having his daughter's door opened by an officer of the law. But then, we had been through something like this before.

  “Charlotte,” he greeted me impassively. Eyes the same colour as my own studied the contusions on my face with professional detachment. I saw them shift downwards, as though calculating what other injuries lay beneath my clothing. I could almost hear his mind ticking over probable cause, course of treatment.

  He looked the same as ever. Thinning grey hair cropped close to his scalp, skin tanned from three foreign holidays a year. He was wearing a good if rather funereal suit, topped by an impeccable raincoat, and carrying a leather dispatch case.

  He could easily have been mistaken for a retired army officer. Major at least, but more like lieutenant-colonel. Matey enough with the lower ranks to earn loyalty rather than just expect it, I considered. And remote enough to order them to their deaths without a qualm.

  Wilks broke in to our mutual visual assessment, cheerfully offering my father coffee, calling him sir.

  He thanked her gravely, then returned his gaze to me. I waved to the sofa and, after a moment's hesitation at the prospect of placing himself on something with such a motheaten appearance, he removed his raincoat and sat.

  “I take it,” he said, choosing his words with care as he checked the crease in his trousers, “that there have been further developments since we last spoke.”

  “You could say that,” I returned with equal caution.

  Wilks reappeared with the coffee and then hovered, looking uncomfortable. “I don't suppose you would be compromising your orders if you went to make a check on the stairs and left us to chat for a while, would you?” I asked her.

  She smiled, looking suddenly human, and made for the door. I could see her brightening at the prospect of the day's first delayed fix of nicotine.

  My father waited until she was gone before he slid the dispatch case onto his knees and unbuckled its leather straps. He pulled out three slim files and stood the case back on the floor.

  “I didn't think it was wise to discuss these while y
our little friend was around,” he commented. “Particularly as officially I'm not supposed to be in possession of them, let alone be showing them to you.”

  He handed me the files. For a moment I stared at the stamp on the front that identified them as the property of a pathology lab in Preston. “Are these what I think they are?”

  He inclined his head in agreement, suddenly – painfully – reminding me of Marc. “Results of the post mortem examinations on the three people you mentioned,” he supplied. “It took me a little while to locate them. Suspicious deaths aren't dealt with at Lancaster. Those are the full reports,” he added. “Would you like me to go through them and give you the layman's précis?”

  I resisted the urge to bite at him and acknowledged that he wasn't being condescending. Left to my own devices I probably wouldn't be able to make out a single useful piece of information.

  I gave in, not very gracefully, and he opened the first file. “If we take the male victim first,” he said, his voice coolly unemotional, as though we were discussing the weather. “This is a fairly straightforward case of disembowelment. Apart from numerous superficial defence wounds, there was a single large incision to the abdomen. Death was caused by massive trauma to just about all the major organs, blood loss, and shock.”

  “Even I could spot that one,” I pointed out.

  He stilled. “You saw the body?”

  I realised I'd just made a mistake, but covering it up now was going to be difficult. “Yes,” I said shortly. “What about the others?”

  He continued to stare at me for a moment longer, then consulted his other files. “The two girls were killed by the same man, without question,” he said. “DNA evidence confirms it, not to mention the modus operandi. It seems he raped them both at knife-point, probably inflicted some of the injuries seen on the head and neck at the same time. Then he cut their throats. The first girl – Susie – was subjected to a longer, more sustained attack. Her facial injuries are more severe. The second victim was dealt with much more hurriedly, and she managed to scratch her attacker. Skin and hair samples were recovered from under her fingernails.”

  I sat for a few moments digesting what he'd just said. I vividly remembered the marks on Angelo's face I'd seen the night we'd tried to trap him at the club.

  Before, I'd assumed he'd either received that at the same time, or maybe Victoria had managed to land one on him during their bust-up. Instead, it must have been Joy who'd done him the damage . . .

  “So Angelo did them all,” I murmured, almost to myself.

  My father glanced at me. “You think these three crimes were all the work of one man?” he asked. There was something in his voice that grabbed my attention.

  Pulse jumping, I turned to him. “Aren't they?”

  He didn't answer outright, picking up the reports again. “The knife wound to the man runs left to right, as you'd expect from an assailant who was right-handed,” he explained, “but the two women were beaten on the right-hand side of their heads, and the initial wounds to the throat are also on the right side, indicating strongly that the rapist is a left-hander.”

  He regarded me solemnly, and I didn't doubt for a moment that he was right. “But if that's the case . . .” I began, my voice tailing off.

  He nodded, following my line of thought. “That's right. There are two very different men at work here, Charlotte. I'm afraid there's no doubt about it.”

  Twenty-four

  By the time WPC Wilks returned from her crafty cigarette, my father had gathered the post mortem reports back into their individual files, and discreetly returned them to his dispatch case.

  There was more I wanted to ask him, but felt inhibited by the third set of ears. Wilks tried not to make it obvious that she was eavesdropping, but they were flapping, all the same.

  My father left soon afterwards, giving me the sort of impersonal kiss on the cheek you would a maiden aunt. “Take care of yourself, Charlotte,” he told me, his voice serious. “And call your mother.”

  “I will,” I promised, and realised that I probably meant it. “Just don't tell her about – this,” I finished lamely. “I don't want her to worry about me.” Or not to care, I added silently.

  He nodded and agreed to keep my mother blissfully unaware of my troubles. I almost detected the faintest glint of a conspiratorial smile as he turned away down the stairs.

  When he'd gone I sat on one of the window ledges, staring out across the river, lost in my thoughts. It was cold and windy, and by the look of the clouds sweeping across the sky, soon the rain would arrive to make it a hat-trick.

  If Angelo had killed Terry, but not the women, then who had done it? And how had they got hold of my voice changer?

  On the other hand, if Angelo wasn't Terry's murderer, then who was? I'd been so sure it was the same man that, suddenly faced with evidence to the contrary, I was utterly lost.

  I tried to remember who at the club was left-handed, but even that fact escaped me. I couldn't recall ever having noticed Angelo writing anything down. He fought fairly evenly with both hands, and I'd never seen him pull a knife.

  Somewhere, in the back of my mind, something rang a bell, but the harder I reached for it, the more elusive it became. Eventually, with a sigh, I gave up and climbed awkwardly off my perch. More coffee, that was what I needed.

  I tottered through into the kitchen, my aching muscles protesting at the simple activity of refilling the filter machine. The rain started to fall, abrupt and heavy on the skylight over the sink. I had a sudden thought that there was no way I was going to ride up to Devil's Bridge with Clare if I didn't have to.

  I moved back through to the lounge straight away, and picked up the phone, punching in Jacob and Clare's number.

  Jacob answered, sounding slightly taken aback, but I jumped straight in with my excuses. “Hi Jacob, it's me. Could you tell Clare that I'm not really feeling up to Devil's Bridge today? Would she mind if we called it off?” I paused expectantly. “Jacob?”

  “She's already set off,” Jacob said slowly, and I could hear the worry climb in his voice. “She left a good hour ago. I thought the two of you would be up there by now.”

  My mouth dried. “Are you sure she was coming straight here?”

  “Positive. Look, I'll have a run out in the Range Rover, just in case she's had a problem with the Ducati. You know what the electrics are like on these old Italian bikes. One drop of rain and they give up the ghost,” he said, trying not to sound as though he was panicking. “If she turns up at your place in the meantime, let me know, would you?”

  “OK,” I said, and rang off with my own anxiety rising to match. I had just started collecting my gear together when the phone rang again. Wilks looked up from her study of one of my fitness magazines, saw I was closer to it than she was, and went back to her reading.

  I was half-expecting it to be Jacob again, to say everything was all right, but it was Clare herself on the line.

  “Charlie?” To begin with I was too relieved to recognise her voice to realise that the pitch was slightly off and she sounded strained.

  “Oh, hi, I was just about to come and look for you,” I babbled. “Have you had problems with the bike? Have you rung Jacob?” I paused. Nothing. “Clare?”

  “Ye-yes, I'm still here,” she said jerkily. “Listen, Charlie, there's someone here who wants to speak to you.”

  “Clare, what's the matter?” I said, more warily now. “You sound like you've been crying. Are you OK?”

  But it wasn't Clare who spoke. Instead, I heard that metallic voice I'd come to dread.

  “Your friend doesn't seem too happy to be here with me,” it said.

  The fear laced down my spine, riffling the hairs, causing an involuntary spasm in my hands. “What do you want?” I said sharply. Wilks looked up, but I ignored her inquiring glance.

  “What do I want, Charlie? Now that's an interesting question,” purred the voice. “I want vengeance. I want you naked and screaming under me. Th
at's what I want.” The voice halted a moment, then delivered the death blow. “But if I can't have you, I'm willing to take a substitute. Your friend Clare, for instance.”

  “Go on,” I said tightly. There were bands round my chest. I couldn't breathe fully. I was gripping the phone so hard it made my hand pulse.

  “The New Adelphi. Be here in ten minutes. If you're late, she dies,” the voice commanded, and even the voice changer couldn't disguise the swell of triumph. “Oh, and Charlie, I know your place is crawling with filth at the moment, so make sure you wash before you come. Any sign of the boys in blue and she'll be dead before you make it through the door.”

  “If you harm her . . .” I began, my own tone quiet but frozen. He didn't reply to that one. There was just a soft click, and he'd gone.