by Andy Remic
They made love. On the settee. Before the roaring fire.
He fucked her gently, rhythmically.
She writhed beneath him. Pale and slim and white.
Her dark hair was a fan. Her lips gloss red; like blood.
Callaghan blinked, panting, sweat rolling down his back, one side of his body warmed by the open fire, his left side chilled by the cold air of the rarely used cottage. Sophie’s hands curled around his neck. She tasted of honey.
I can’t believe she killed him, he thought.
I can’t believe she shot him.
I can’t believe she blew his fucking head off.
Sophie kissed him again, hard, urgent; tongues entwined. Her body thrust against him, pounded him, taut belly slapping at his flesh, cunt clenching him like a fist, squeezing him, clamping him, holding him there in chains of lust, in chains of fire, and he knew she would never ever ever let him go...
(whisper it)
you’re frightened
she scares you
cal, she scares the shit out of you...
callaghan – you’re making love to a killer
callaghan – you’re fucking a murderer
Sophie started to moan, her ululation rising to a heaving bucking thrusting climax, muscles contracting, body wailing, her hands holding him tighter than tight, but Callaghan felt detached and cold and alien, part of a different race, a different breed, and he felt as if he was watching this sex, this parody of love, this writhing squirming beast from afar; a distant spectator, a man apart. Sophie climaxed, her hands claws, nails talons, slicing his back without mercy. Pain flushed him. Blood trickled his flanks. But he could not bring himself to finish the job; and so instead gave an animal growl and slumped across her, spent, faked, his orgasm a sham, his sexual need burned and gone and lost forever.
They lay for a while; calm; limp; chilled.
Callaghan turned to watch the fire.
Sophie lit a cigarette, and passed it to Cal. Their conversation was minimal; functional. She feels it as well, he thought. She feels our distance. She feels our detachment. He looked at her then; into her eyes and her head tilted. She smiled and he held her gaze.
‘You OK?’ She stroked his cheek (with those killing hands).
‘Yeah.’
‘You don’t sound it.’
‘I’m exhausted.’
‘Did I scare you back there?’
‘No! No... well, a little.’
‘Don’t be frightened of the police. They won’t find us.’
‘I know. I... understand.’
Sophie snuggled close to him, her head on his chest. Her skin was soft and cool and smooth. She looked up, stretched languorously, kissed him. ‘I’m glad we’re together,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I know we’ll always be together.’
Callaghan, face in shadow, did not reply.
It started to rain on the journey back to London. The sky darkened with fists of stormcloud and Callaghan hunkered behind the BMW’s screen, mind focused entirely on the road, the wet snake of traffic, slick tarmac under slick tyres.
Stopping at the Oxford Services on the M4, Cal bought himself a coffee as water dripped from his semi–waterproof clothing. He felt chilled. Not just in body, but in spirit.
He stood under the shelter of the station, gazing out as sheets of rain slammed diagonally across the car–park; his BMW dripped close by, engine ticking as it cooled.
Checking his mobile, he saw he had a voicemail message. Dialling, Cal listened with furrowed brow as DI Bronagh instructed him to head straight for Charing Cross upon his return to London. No negotiation. It was an order.
Do they know?
Do they know about the farmer? About the bodies? About the shooting in the woods?
Do they know about Sophie? And Vladimir?
Shit. Of course they don’t know...
How could they?
It’s just your paranoia... stop being a dick.
The rest of the journey was conducted in a grim wet cold silence. He considered phoning Jimmy, but his mood was blacker than black, and by the time he arrived at Agar Street and climbed wearily up the steps to the front doors of the police station, he desperately craved sleep. Exhaustion was his brother.
He was shown to the same interview room where... God, had it only been that morning?... where Bronagh had conducted his little interrogation. Callaghan stripped off his wet outer layers and kicked free his boots. The room was far from warm, and he stood shivering until a small blonde WPC with smiling face and bright green eyes brought him a nirvana of coffee.
Clutching the cup – as if it were his only friend – and sipping hot sweet brew past shivering lips Cal watched suspiciously as Bronagh entered. Still the same scowling, thunderous face. Still the same hunched, mighty shoulders and tightly compressed lips – as if permanently pissed about the world around him and its bitter retributions which he couldn’t control.
Bronagh paused for a moment, staring at Callaghan and his dishevelled, exhausted appearance; the large DI’s hand came up and rubbed at his chin thoughtfully with a scraping of stubble. I’ve got to tell him, thought Bronagh. I need the little bastard’s help... He’s linked to the killer, although he doesn’t know it yet. And he’s my only, single damn lead...
‘Sit down.’
‘I’ll stand,’ said Callaghan.
‘As you will. I’ve asked you back to let you in on a few trade secrets. But I’ve got to have your solemn – and I mean solemn – promise none of this will make the pages of Black & White. I can do without the gutter press camped outside my door while I conduct a murder investigation.’
‘I think you’ll get that anyway. Won’t you?’
‘Possibly. But if the buzzards get hold of this scrap, I’ll never get a moment’s peace. We have a deal?’
Bronagh’s attitude seemed to have relaxed; and this in turn put Callaghan more at ease. A lot had happened that day – the last thing he needed was another roughing up. In a world of sudden enemies, Cal welcomed this change of stance. This brittle friendship – however remote.
‘OK.’ He nodded, their eyes locked for a moment in a connection of intimacy; he sipped his coffee and stamped wet–stockinged feet. ‘We have a deal.’
‘That woman last night. Our little murder victim.’
‘Yeah, the poor bitch? What about her?’
‘The “poor bitch” had previous.’
‘Previous what?’
‘You tired or just being a smart–arse, little arse?’
‘Sorry Bronagh. Real long day. Believe me, I’m not the brightest bulb in the packet at the moment.’
‘OK, well I’ll give it you straight, Callaghan. Murray served jail–time ten years ago; convicted on five counts of child abuse. She was a nanny, beat her kids with a brush handle. Beat the living crap out of one little boy, snapped his ribs and his collar bone, broke his nose and cheekbone – poor little nipper was only two years old. She was sentenced to two years, served eleven months at Holloway. You know how our socially inept system likes to propagate a community “fuck–up” service; support the criminal, help the aged, and all that.’
‘OK.’ Callaghan was frowning, face creased. He moved and seated himself at the table. ‘Go on. You have my attention.’ He felt a little more awake now; the coffee and the twin dabs of speed just before Bronagh stepped into the interview room were beginning to awaken his senses. That, and his natural bloodhound scent of a good story.
‘Anyway, Murray’s a good little girl for a while, uses her brain, performs when she’s asked to jump through hoops – then she drops off the radar. You know how lax Social Services can be. She changes her name – legally, all above board – and somehow manages to get herself a nursing qualification. Fakes referees, that sort of shit. Slips past the police checks no problem. Loophole in the system, or something.’
‘There always is,’ growled Cal.
‘Couple of years ago she started wor
k on the children’s ward of a local hospital. Couple of years ago, coincidentally, infant mortality rates start to increase. Ever so slightly. Not enough to cause panic or alarm; but it’s there. A statistic. It was noted in several hospital memorandums between management.’
Cal nodded. Something cold prickled up and down his spine; like the tongue of a dead lover.
Bronagh continued, eyes fixed hard on Callaghan. ‘Seems our little Murray has been a busy beaver all right. One of the Matrons gets suspicious and starts monitoring her – quiet like – but is too damned late to save the seven infants the bitch targeted for an early retirement.’ Bronagh shook his head sadly. ‘She did a runner, but was picked up at a petrol station forecourt in North Manchester. When we found her – skinned – the other night, she was awaiting trial accused of injecting thirteen babies with adrenaline; tried to pass the killings off as cot deaths – even got away with it until one canny coroner worked out just what the fuck was going on.’
‘If she was about to go on trial, how the hell did she end up walking the streets? And how did she end up dead?’
Bronagh shrugged, looking suddenly weary as he rubbed bloodshot eyes. ‘That’s the thing, Callaghan. They granted her bail. Dickheads. But hey, I’m just dumb plod, right? What do I know about the intricate workings of the greatest legal minds in the country? The point is – they let her out. She’d been on the street for a month.’
‘So somebody got to her,’ nodded Cal.
‘Peeled her like a fruit. Decided she was going to get some rough justice – and that her offspring would never breathe our sweet, fresh London smog. They made damn sure her kids would never walk the world to proliferate violence and evil.’
‘Jesus. What a mess.’
‘You’re not kidding, Callaghan. So, it looks like I’ve got a revenge killing, right? Looks like somebody – maybe one of the parents, or a relative of the murdered babies – well, they’ve gone all out for a piece of vengeance pie. That’s fine; it’s a motive I can run with. Even understand, sympathise with – you know what I’m saying?’
‘But?’
‘Yeah, always a but, eh Cal?’ Bronagh gave a bitter bark of laughter. ‘That message in her grip. The one addressed to you? I’m ready to tell you what it said.’
Cal was on the edge of his seat, coffee forgotten in chilled fingers. His eyes widened. He licked dry lips, nodding almost imperceptibly. ‘Go on.’
‘It was a single white sheet of generic A4 paper, 80gsm. The only thing it contained was the number 13, placed in the top left hand corner of the page and delivered by an impact ribbon typewriter.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Murray was up on a possible thirteen counts of infanticide. So that was a possibility. Also, the way the numbers were presented; it looked like a page number – on a manuscript. So page 13 in a certain work of fiction, maybe? A hint leading us somewhere? It could have been a reference to Beverly Allit, a nurse who got thirteen life sentences in 1993 for murdering four children; or maybe even to Peter Sutcliffe, the bastard who murdered thirteen women up North.’
‘Maybe it was just thirteen – unlucky for some?’
‘That did occur to us. But then I had a visit from DI Jefferies, West Yorkshire police. He’d seen this sort of thing once before – the old typewriter impact font, top left hand corner, digits presented exactly how they were presented here, to us.’
‘Where did he see it?’
Bronagh got up then, moved around the table. He crouched next to Callaghan, glanced back at the door – as if involved in a conspiracy, or an act of treason. He was nervous; edgy. He interlaced his fingers and looked up, over, deep into Callaghan’s eyes.
‘What I’m going to tell you has never been leaked. I mean, never. If the press were to get hold of this...’ He left the sentence unfinished, but the implications were obvious. By telling Callaghan, he would be creating the weakest link. And it was not a prospect with which he was comfortable.
Cal nodded. His teeth chose that moment to start thumping him with pain, only gently, but hard enough to say: hey motherfucker, I’m your crucifying fun little bout of toothache – and I’ve come back to play!
‘Go on. You’re killing me.’
‘You’ve heard of Harold Shipman, of course. The infamous Dr Death, mass– murdering piece of stinking doctor shit? Right?’
‘Who hasn’t?’
‘And you might remember that on the thirteenth of January, 2004, he was found hanging from his window bars at Wakefield Prison. Said to have hung himself using his own bed sheets – despite showing no adverse suicidal indication previously, so–much–so that he wasn’t even included on Wakefield’s Suicide Watch. They thought he was a happy camper. No clear and present danger. Right?’
Cal nodded. He was studying Bronagh. Watching the DI intently. The pounding in his head increased. ‘What happened?’
Bronagh gave a strange little smile. ‘Dr Harold Shipman did not hang himself. He was murdered. Somebody entered his cell, gagged him and bound his hands behind his back. This person tore his bed sheets into strips, tied the strips around his throat and hoisted him up against the window bars. Whilst he was hanging there, that same somebody used a hacksaw to remove both his legs – just above the knee. He died from massive blood loss at around 4 AM. The staff had to wade through his fucking gore to cut down his corpse.’
Bronagh stood, turned, moved away from Callaghan.
Cal blinked, breathed deeply, a frown hijacking his features. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘Yeah? Right Callaghan. Sure it is.’
‘But – how the hell did you cover it up?’
‘It took a lot of work, Callaghan.’ Bronagh’s face hardened. ‘That’s why I’m so reluctant to let you in on our collaborative secret. Especially with regards your gutter–press allegiance. But, if the truth be known, our killer last night has a link – or thinks he has a link – to you.’
‘Shipman was holding a similar note?’
Bronagh nodded. ‘It had the number 7 in the top left–hand corner. Again, this never made the press. Shall we say we just put it in Drawer 101.’
Drawer 101. An accused man’s worst fear.
A pit of disappearing evidence...
The unsolved, and the unsolvable.
‘So, this murder last night, it’s a copy–cat killing, right?’
‘Maybe.’ Bronagh rubbed his eyes. ‘The thing is Callaghan, we’re stuck. There were no clues at the scene of the crime except for that note – which implicates you. Now, this game that’s being played – if, and I think this is definitely at outside shot – if we have a copy–cat killing, then our murderer has to have deep insider information.’
‘Ex–police?’
‘Would have to be top brass,’ nodded Bronagh. ‘Although there were prison staff witnesses; and of course, the doctor who pronounced Shipman dead without his legs.’
‘And the murderer himself, of course.’
Bronagh nodded. He smiled. ‘Yeah. There’s him.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I want you to think, Callaghan. This fruitcake put your name on that damned envelope for a reason. Now, the bastard would know we’d get our hands on it – so maybe it was to try and implicate you in the mutilation and fruitcake–skinning session. However, that seems highly improbable. Way too easy – and you also have an alibi for the time of death.’
‘I do?’
‘You were in Glasgow. In a hotel room. With a woman.’
Cal met Bronagh’s eyes. ‘Ahh. You know about that, do you?’
‘Yeah. And I know who her husband is, so let’s just say we both know the kind of Semtex you’re juggling with. But hey, it’s your life to gamble, right? The point is, our single clue points to you – with a big fluorescent comedy arrow. So you must know this person, even if you think that you don’t – because they sure as hell know you. You’ve got to think hard Cal; you’ve got to open your brain, channel your thoughts. You’ve got to help me. B
efore this lunatic strikes again.’
Callaghan pulled free a Marlboro and lit the cigarette with shaking fingers. He closed his eyes while he smoked, and then simply nodded, and started to pull on his boots.
‘I’ll try my best, Bronagh. I promise, I’ll try my very best.’
‘That’s all I ask. Anything. Anything at all you can remember, no matter how insignificant you think it is. And Callaghan?’
‘Yes, Detective Inspector?’
‘Try and keep your big mouth shut, there’s a good boy.’
Callaghan had parked the BMW and was locking shutters when he heard the noise behind. He froze, fear slamming his throat, his heart, balls shrinking to pips, stomach crushing itself with terror.
He whirled, expecting to see –
Callaghan blinked.
Jimmy grinned at him. ‘How’s it going, brother? Man, you look like tortured shit.’
‘Jimmy! You scared the living bejesus out of me.’
‘Sorry mate. Come on, we’ve got a gig.’
‘What?’
‘We’ve had another call. From Mr Volos.’
‘Whoa! Wait a minute.’ Callaghan’s breath streamed like smoke in the underground space. He glanced left and right, as if afraid they were being observed. ‘I’ve had a lot of crap today. Believe me, it’s been a real long barrel of laughs. A really bad day, I promise you. I need to get home, a few lines, a few drams, and that’s me fucked for the night.’
‘Did you see Bronagh?’
Cal nodded.
‘So you know what was in the note,’ said Jimmy, his face turning serious. ‘Come on Cal, this isn’t some supermarket getting turned over by a teenage gang in hoodies. This is murder. Maybe even a serial killer. Hot fucking news, my man. We’ve got to look at the positives.’
‘Volos told you there was another victim?’
‘Yeah!’ Jimmy’s eyes were alight. Face filled with excitement; almost childlike in his reverie.
‘We need to phone Bronagh. We need to think this one through.’
‘No way, Cal. Look, you want to go sniffing and prodding up Bronagh’s arse every time we get a tip–off, that’s fine. But this is big, mate. I mean, this could set us up for life.’