by Andy Remic
Dreams. Dark dreams. What makes a nightmare? What creates the worst moment of a person’s life?
Callaghan remembered. All those moments. All those nightmares. Those dark dreams and sour, bad memories; hellish moments of demons and devils. He remembered...
His betrayals.
And the oldest. The saddest. The deepest.
Sullivan. The betrayal of Sullivan...
Leaving his childhood friend on the road to die...
‘Hell... hell... help – me –’
Callaghan blinked. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. His torch hung forgotten; somehow, he had switched it off. Are you crazy? screeched his inner demon. And yet – he did not switch it back on. Something inside his sanity told him it would be a bad idea...
Nose twitching on slaughterhouse stench, Callaghan moved his knife before him for protection; a slow and deliberate movement. Again, thunder rumbled. Somewhere far above clouds parted. Ambient moonlight spilled into the deserted and desecrated office; to illuminate the man.
He was large, a fat man grossly overweight with huge rolls of blubber falling over themselves like competing rubber rings. He lay, pegged out, naked and scorched with filth. White patches gleamed between what looked like skin stained black with engine oil. His arms were pinioned above his head, huge bicep rolls suspended just above the ground by galvanised wires which had dug into flesh creating crimson circlets around wrists and elbows. Other wires strung the fat man above rotten, wooden flooring; somehow wires had been attached to his hips and stretched out towards the walls. More wires circled his knees, again spanning off in taut rigidity... and his whole body bobbed, bouncing efficiently on tensioned wire and slick flesh suspension.
‘What the fuck happened here?’ hissed Callaghan, sanity slamming his brain but failing to gain entry. He flicked on his Maglite and swept the corners of the room, killing shadows. There was nobody else there. No torturer. No killer. No murderer. Callaghan’s torch moved down over the strung–out victim...
And he halted, beam shaking.
Cal felt a scream well in his throat as little details manifested themselves neatly before his vision, a savage jigsaw puzzle coming slowly together... like a sea of blood rolling over a shore of jagged, severed bone.
The victim’s face had been cut with something sharp – razor sharp – cut and pared and sliced, leaving huge folds of flesh hanging down in strips from a mask which belonged in a horror movie. Skin and meat drifted aimlessly against the floor, making tiny rasping sounds.
Cal’s torch moved warily in its solo adventure, in timid but necessary exploration: as if frightened by what it might see.
The victim’s bloated torso was stained, filthy, oil–smeared, arms and hands black and necrotic from lack of circulation. His belly, also, had been sliced deep in neat horizontal strips. Cal could see the yellow of layered fat as slices opened and closed. He could see the pulsing grey of bared bowel. A glistening glimpse of tepid blood pools.
And... the man had no feet. Below his knees, skin had been shaved away, flesh and meat and bone tapering to points where the ankles should have been. Callaghan’s torch wobbled.
There, notched in the pointed sharpened tibia bones, there were symmetrical carvings.
The man groaned. Drool pooled from twitching lips.
Callaghan dropped his torch, turned and ran from the old mill office, hand over his mouth, jets of vomit spewing between fingers and out over the rotten floor. And then Jimmy was beside him, hands around him. ‘Come on Callaghan,’ he was saying. ‘Come on, control yourself.’
Above, outside, the storm started to abate. The rain lessened. Callaghan glanced back. He could still see the tortured man bobbing in his personal field of suspension.
‘Who could do that?’
‘Is it bad?’ whispered Jimmy.
‘It’s bad,’ said Callaghan with a shiver.
Blue lights flickered. Jimmy looked up, looked out over the huge gap where floorboards dropped away like wooden cliffs. Outside, engines screamed and growled, were savagely killed. Blue lights spat a stroboscope across decadent brick walls.
‘The police are here,’ said Jimmy compassionately.
Callaghan merely nodded, looking over at the girl; at the bait.
‘Let’s get her down; get her out of here.’
‘What about him?’
Callaghan met Jimmy’s eyes. ‘He needs putting out of his misery. You offering to do it?’
Jimmy smiled a nasty smile. ‘What, and serve twenty years for a murder I didn’t commit? Let’s get Mr Porky Pig up here. He can decide what to do.’
Cal stood beside the squad car, smoking a cigarette. The storm had moved on and the night smelled fresh, crisp, and was terribly cold. He watched as the paramedics lifted the corpse – he had died on his way down from the treacherous platform via a fire service turntable ladder – into the back of an ambulance. The doors were closed. Callaghan shivered, remembering the hammer buried in the back of the man’s skull.
Up on the rotten platform, Cal had failed to notice this detail; that somebody had driven a hammer into the man’s skull. Surprisingly, this had not killed him... not instantly. Death had eventually come through blood–loss; but one of the paramedics said the obese man must have been dealt the blow close to the moment when Cal and Jimmy entered the building. The victim had been tortured whilst the two news men had been climbing the stairs... Bled like a slaughterhouse pig whilst Cal played at being detective.
Cal smoked. He tried to ignore the bulky policeman to whom he was handcuffed. It was not easy.
A female DI approached; she was small and fierce looking, with wild green eyes that reminded Cal of Sophie. Her hair was lank from the recent downpour and she halted before him, scowling. ‘Your story checks out. DI Bronagh is on his way – by chopper. He confirms he knows you two mongrels; or has at least had dealings with you. Unfortunately, he said nothing about releasing you. And until we’ve got this mess sorted out, it’s best if you sit in the van. You’re not under arrest, you understand. You’re simply helping us with a difficult situation.’
Cal nodded, and stared forlornly at his two remaining Marlboros. ‘Shit,’ he said.
Sitting across from Jimmy, the two men stared at the floor.
‘Definitely a set–up,’ said Jimmy, finally.
‘That bastard Volos is doing this,’ said Callaghan.
‘We don’t know that.’
‘Come on, Jimmy. It’s so damned obvious it hurts. But why does he want us to carry the can? He can’t be so stupid that he sets up such an elaborate murder, then directs the police to us expecting them to fall for such a crock of shit. I mean, after butchering a man like that – hell, you’d look like –’
‘You just committed murder?’
‘Well, yes!’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jimmy, staring at the two large uniformed PCs who guarded them inside the van. ‘They might have fallen for it. After all, there are some pretty fucking stupid police on the force.’
‘Stop your talk,’ snapped one of the PCs, eyes bright, face filled with annoyance.
Outside, tyres crunched gravel. Shortly, the van doors opened and Cal and Jimmy invited to step down. They followed a stony faced Bronagh to his car – a large Lexus – and climbed into the luxurious back. Doors closed. Alone now, Bronagh turned and regarded the two men.
‘You’re like Laurel and fucking Hardy,’ he said. ‘Or Dumb and fucking Dumbest. What the hell were you two doing here? In fact, don’t answer that question. I have the facts in front of me.’ He regarded a thin sheet of A4, and stared at the two filthy, bedraggled, stinking men. ‘I thought, gentlemen, that you were supposed to keep me informed of your whereabouts? I thought you were going to tell me when this Volos lunatic gave you a call? Instead, you head off like a couple of teenage vigilantes trying to catch a killer, trying like hell to get their front page story. Jee–zus. When will you two dumb cunts wake up and smell the sewage? This killer is one dangerous madman.’
/>
Jimmy regarded the DI with a steel glare. ‘Bronagh. Go to hell. And stay there.’
‘Don’t push me, Jimmy. Not tonight, I swear to God. I’m warning you! Now, this is how the game is to be played: you’re going to fly back to London with me. You’re going to get some sleep in the cells. Then, we’re going to spend the day – me asking questions, you answering questions. We’re going to assign you with plain-clothes detectives – for your own protection, you understand – we’re going to tap your phones, monitor your movements, read your emails and even record your pathetic sex sessions if we have to. You two dickheads are going to help me catch this lunatic before he rages across the UK like an epidemic. You hearing me loud and clear?’
Jimmy lifted his hand, like a schoolboy in class.
‘Yeah?’
‘One question.’
‘Go on.’
‘Was the girl OK?’
‘The girl is fine. Not a bloody mark on her, except for where the rope burned her wrists. She was pretty shaken up, and will probably experience serious trauma for the rest of her life. She said she could hear it; hear that guy being tortured. A pleasant experience to haunt her darkest dreams, eh boys?’
Cal frowned. ‘Why didn’t the madman kill her? Or at least wound her? Torture her? I thought that’s how sick bastards got their kicks? I thought that’s where the perverse fucks got their little hard–ons?’
‘We’ll ask him when we catch him,’ said Bronagh, face dark.
The Lexus sped away, wheels churning mud and crunching loose gravel.
Cal stared out from rain–spattered glass. Stared out at a dark and infinite world where everything seemed crazy; where the sane had become insane, normal abnormal, rational irrational.
And for a moment – a fraction of an instant – he was sure they passed a figure standing under the shadows of the huge, swaying trees which lined the roadside.
A figure with a pale white face, jet–black hair, and a long leather coat.
A figure who seemed to be watching them.
Cal spent an uncomfortable but short night in the cells. As Bronagh said, they weren’t strictly under arrest – but they soon could be. And if that happened things would and could get a lot nastier. A lot harder. More brutal, he promised, with gleaming, narrowed eyes.
Bleary and worn, Cal sat in borrowed clothes in the same bare interview room. It smelled of strong detergent – and an ingrained vomit stench, like an aged mental hospital. The sort of false, sterile place which could never be made clean.
Cal’s soiled tailoring had been taken to forensics. He’d been given a pair of battered old boots that had seen better days. Dead Man’s Boots, he dubbed them.
It was late morning. A sympathetic WPC brought him a couple of egg and bacon rolls, but he didn’t have the stomach to eat. He watched Jimmy wolf the food down; Jimmy scooped up Cal’s untouched breakfast, washed it down with four cups of sweet black coffee, and grinned.
‘You’re an animal,’ Cal observed as the Scotsman chewed.
‘A man has to eat.’
‘Not when he saw what I fucking saw.’
‘That’s because you’re the poet’s pet pussy.’
Cal found Jimmy’s optimism irritating. Jimmy kept saying things like, well, at least we’re not dead! or hey, it could be worse, we could be locked up for serial murder! Somehow, as Cal sat in some dead old boy’s Oxfam surplus, he thought Jimmy had missed the point.
Bronagh entered. He looked bone–weary.
‘You look like I feel,’ said Callaghan, coughing into his coffee.
‘Not from where I’m standing,’ said Bronagh, with a subdued smile. ‘You sleep OK?’
‘Like the dead.’
‘It could have been worse. You could have been dead. When you consider what our friendly neighbourhood lunatic did to that man.’
‘Now you’re sounding like Jimmy.’
Bronagh grinned, and sat down across from Callaghan, rubbing his hands through his hair. ‘God, I need a shower, a shave, and a decent night with my wife. It’s been far too long.’
Callaghan’s heart went out to Bronagh. The man had what seemed like an almost impossible task. No clues, two dick–heads blundering about in the middle of two murders, a family life that was probably falling apart through lack of contact; and yet a burning need to find this killer, to remove this scourge from the streets – even if it cost him his marriage. Which it probably would.
The sacrifices some people make, he thought sourly.
‘OK, to business Callaghan. We don’t suspect you of the murder. The woman – Linda–Ann – has given us a part description of the killer – between sobs and wails and the need to hug her mother. Believe me, it was a very long process. But she said enough to get you two off the hook. A good thing you happened along, eh Cal? Regular boy scouts.’
‘What about the murder victim?’
Bronagh went silent. Then looked up, head tilted to one side. ‘You remember our conversation? Yesterday?’
‘Yeah. Number 13. Kathryn Murray up on a charge of infanticide. All that. How could I forget? The nightmares still haunt me – well, they would, if I could get some bastard sleep.’
‘This murder was committed by the same boy. But you knew that, didn’t you? I guess you suspect Mr Volos – obviously a pseudonym. There’s no Volos on our database answering the description we’ve got, and you only have to run it through Google to come up with the Slavic God, Volos – The God of Death. Pretty obvious what this sick fuck’s little intimation is. He’s The God of Death, ergo, he Will Bring Death. Give the boy a Blue Peter Badge. What an imagination.’
‘What else?’
‘You saw the torture. Lacerations, necrotic flesh, our murderer used something very, very sharp – a Stanley Knife blade, or one of those cut–throat razors they shave you with on holiday in Turkey. As the man was obviously screaming, the killer whacked him over the back of the head with a claw–hammer. This didn’t kill him, but he did die from blood loss – just after you two discovered his sorry arse.’
Cal looked up. ‘You said... a claw–hammer?’
Bronagh nodded. ‘Mad, isn’t it? So we started to run some tests. Fingerprints. Genetic samples. Dental records. And low and behold if our new serial killer hasn’t just gone and topped an old one.’
Mid– and Southern England had been haunted for the past eighteen months by a serial killer who the press had dubbed ‘The Claw–hammer’ – on account of him murdering young, pre–pubescent white females with a claw–hammer. There had been four murders; now, it seemed, the favour of hard metal had been returned.
‘You sure about this?’ asked Cal, slowly. ‘You sure it’s that black and white?’
‘Yeah. Claw–hammer was clumsy; left us a few clues here and there. A fingerprint on a victim’s leather bag – where his rubber glove must have split. A couple of hairs mingled with one of the victim’s – bastard probably gave her a final cuddle before he bashed in her skull. And he bit one girl on the shin – so we had a limited dental model. It all checks out. Just a matter of time before we tracked down the miserable scumbag. However, your killer has now just killed our killer. An interesting turn of events, wouldn’t you say?’
‘This is crazy.’
‘Tell me about it. Now all we need is the rapists to start raping the rapists and paedophiles to begin sodomising one another with extreme and violent prejudice. Hey, we could clean up London in a few weeks.’
‘This ain’t funny,’ snapped Callaghan.
‘Do you see me laughing? One thing’s for sure. Your killer is some kind of vigilante. Looks to me like he’s out for revenge; maybe he was a victim himself. We’re checking out descriptions of family relations and friends belonging to serial–killer victims over the past ten years.’
‘Good thinking.’
‘That’s why I’m a DI. But I’ll tell you something else, Cal. This bastard will kill again... and kill soon.’
‘Why do you say that?’
&nbs
p; ‘He left a message at the Black and White news office,’ said Bronagh. ‘But this time we’ve got it on tape. This time we’ve got a tag on the bastard’s voice.’
Cal and Jimmy sat smoking as the tape was played. It was short and to the point.
‘Well Callaghan, Jimmy–boy, I hope you enjoyed your little jaunt to Stratford. A shame you didn’t get any fabulous pictures for a super–duper front page story, hey? Tut tut. And you call yourselves professionals! I will be in touch in a couple of days. We can pursue our blossoming career with more... ardour.’
The tape died.
There were four policemen present in the interview room, all smoking. Cal and Jimmy exchanged glances.
‘Did you take any pictures?’ asked Bronagh. This time, the interview was on tape.
‘No,’ said Callaghan. ‘That wasn’t our agenda.’
‘What was your agenda?’ It was another policeman, small but stocky, with a bull neck and thick arms. His name was Jones. He looked more like a Rugby player than police.
‘I wanted to know why some sick maggot was trying to implicate me in murder.’
‘The murder of the woman, Kathryn Murray?’
‘Yeah.’
Bronagh thought for a moment. ‘What I want to know, is, how did the killer know you didn’t take any pictures? He must have been there. At the scene – at the mill – all the time you were present. He must have been watching you. Studying you. Why would he do that? What could he gain?’
‘I wish I knew,’ whispered Callaghan.
Cal stared bleakly onto the corridor leading to his apartment as the lift gave its subtle ping and background music faded... as if in sympathy with his mood. It had been one of the technological marvels which had sold him on this expensive Penthouse apartment. Now, the muzak simply irritated. How could somebody have spent so much time, so much money, so much ingenuity on something so ultimately pointless?
What a day, he thought.
What a nightmare of a day.
Cal stepped from the lift with McGuinness close behind. The Irish cop was businesslike, but sensed he wasn’t wanted and kept conversation to a minimum. Still, he had a job to do.