by Ryan Casey
“Very thoughtful,” Brian said.
“Indeed. But as I say. The markings. The sexual torture.” He paused. “And the way the blood was drained from each body.”
Brian looked at the bodies. Looked at the pale skin. All of a sudden it added up—added up why they were so fucking pale. “They were drained?”
“Remarkably so,” Jeeves said. “It seems to me like they were injected with some sort of needle—probably after their eyes were crushed. And it strikes me that they were likely alive during the draining, too.”
“Fuck,” Brian said. Things were becoming clear in his mind. The syringes. The way the blood had been drained from the bodies of the mice at Joe Kershaw’s. A tried and tested method. He was their man. He was their man and he was in fucking critical care, destined to be a vegetable for the rest of his life—however long that was.
“It adds up, unfortunately,” Jeeves said. “The way the eyes were crushed. It was done with a kind of gentle care. I cannot overestimate how difficult it is to destroy the eyes without doing further damage to surrounding areas.”
“You don’t have to. Really.”
Jeeves walked away from the bodies and took off his gloves. He washed his hands in the grey metal sink—everything was either grey or white in here, even Jeeves’ attire. “I don’t envy you working on this investigation, McDone.”
“Why? Seen anything like this in the past?”
Jeeves didn’t respond. Not for a moment, as water splashed around the sink. And Brian thought he was just being ignorant or doing that silent thing for dramatic effect.
But when he looked over at Jeeves, he saw he was staring right at Brian with wide eyes.
A look he’d never given Brian before.
Was that … some kind of uncertainty?
He turned the tap. Wiped his hands on a paper towel, then slipped on some fresh gloves and walked over towards Brian, his footsteps echoing against the tiles. “It’s been a pleasure seeing you, Detective. You should have plenty to go on. The eyes, the puncture marks, the hair. There should be plenty of grounds for DNA and CCTV evidence.”
He patted Brian on the back and turned away.
“Wait,” Brian said.
Jeeves stopped. Turned back. “Something I can help you with?”
Brian’s throat tightened up. “You … you said something. Just then. About the hair. What about the hair?”
Jeeves’ eyes narrowed. And Brian saw that look again. That look of uncertainty. The same look he’d seen when Jeeves was at the sink. “I think you’re mistaken—”
“You mentioned hair,” Brian said, memories of the anonymous strands of hair returning to his thoughts. The ones Marlow had dismissed as “doll hair.” “What about hair?”
Jeeves blinked and licked his dry lips. “If—if I did say hair there’s no doubt I meant it in—in forensic terms--”
“I know what you said, Jeeves. I know how you fucking said it. So you tell me right now.”
“There’s no need for cursing—”
“The hair. The—the one Marlow sent your way for inspection. Was there something wrong with it? What’s … what’re you hiding?”
He stared into Jeeves’ gun-metal eyes and for a moment he thought he saw his aloof exterior crumbling.
Then he heard a door slam open behind him.
He turned. Saw Arif running his way. Concern on his face. But also excitement.
“Not now, Arif,” Brian said, clenching his fists and trying to keep his cool as much as he could. “Jeeves and I have some things to clear up—”
“No time to clear a thing up, boss,” Arif said. “Get down to Sharoe Green Lane. Another body’s been found.”
Twenty-Four
Brian didn’t require a pathologist’s analysis to know that the victim had suffered the same fate as Harry Galbraith and Carly Mahone.
He stared down at the body as it lay on the grass verge by the side of Sharoe Green Lane. The lights of the photographer’s camera flashed, illuminated that pale skin. That blood-drained skin.
“What is it with serial killing wackos and stripping their victims?” Harriet said. She looked a little more tired under her eyes. Brian couldn’t blame her. Rough couple of days for an officer who was more accustomed to saving cats from trees.
Okay. Brian had saved a cat from a tree once. Don’t hate him for it.
“Blood’s drained at the same points,” Brian said, crouching down beside the body. He took a close look at her. A girl. Dark hair. Smooth skin. Probably in her mid-twenties.
M shape etched into her stomach.
Body pierced in the forearm, the neck, the temples, the chest.
“Thirty,” Brian muttered.
“Huh?”
He shook his head and stood. Caught a glance into the mush where the girl’s eyes once were. “Thirty stab wounds. Or puncture wounds. From some kind of syringe.”
“That supposed to mean something to me?”
“The same amount as Harry Galbraith. As Carly Mahone.”
“Oh.”
“And in the exact same positions.”
“Right.”
He looked down at the body. Above him, up the grassy verge, traffic hurtled down the road. The body had been ditched in a low pathway beside a woods—an area that very few people walked down. The graffiti on the brick wall just beside the body told the story: kids hung around down here. Scrotey kids. It’d been one of those scrotey kids that’d found this body. They were now speaking to an officer up the verge looking very pale and very shaky.
“Better get yer profiling hat on then hadn’t you?” Harriet said.
“Looks that way,” Brian said. He crouched back by the body, despite the sour smell that hadn’t quite manifested as full rot just yet. Something was bothering him. Niggling at him. “Sharoe Green Lane’s a busy road. Surely we’ve got CCTV? Or a passerby’s got to have seen summat at the very least?”
Harriet nodded. “Think the guys in your team are workin’ on CCTV. Last I heard, bodies are in a low spot so analysis might take time. You know how it is.”
Brian knew exactly how it was. Since the police budget cuts, the department had become strained like he’d never seen it.
With the next wave of cuts, it was only going to get worse.
He couldn’t be a victim to that.
“There has to be some footage. Some witness. Some forensic evidence.”
“You’d think so,” Harriet said.
“I mean three people get killed then ditched in relatively public places. How can that just ... just happen?”
Harriet shrugged. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be answerin’ them questions. Not me.”
Brian looked back at the girl. At the scabs on her ears where the tops of them had been snipped away. Something else was bothering him. And a part of his mind told him he was being ridiculous. That he should just let it go.
But he couldn’t.
He leaned forward and took a look at the girl’s dark hair.
“Erm, McDone?” Harriet said.
Brian ignored her. He lifted her head gently, knowing damned well he had to be careful. Shouldn’t be prodding around a crime scene like this, especially while the SOCOs were still doing their jobs.
But he had to see.
He had to know.
“Brian, what’re you—”
“The hair,” Brian said, as he rubbed the tips of his fingers against the back of the girl’s heavy head. “I ... I received some hair. In a letter. Just a few days ago.”
“Weird ex?”
“I wish. I got it sent to forensics. Came back as doll hair, some bullshit like that.”
“What’s that got to do with this?”
Brian chanced a look up at Harriet. Could he trust her? Trust that she wouldn’t go blabbing to senior officers in a desperate attempt to claim the scalp of a detective inspector?
Fuck it.
“Harry and Carly had hair missing too.”
“Forensics confi
rmed that?”
“No, but ...”
“Then how do you know?”
“I just do, okay? I just ... ever since I received that letter, it feels like everyone closest to me is trying to push me away from it. Like they’re trying to ... to divert attention away from it.”
Harriet kicked at the dusty pavement as cars honked their horns on the busy road above. “That’s quite an accusation.”
“Maybe so,” Brian said.
But he didn’t go any further.
’Cause he’d felt the bald patch on the back of this latest victim’s head.
He kept that little tidbit to himself. Just for now.
“McDone?”
Brian looked up. Saw one of the SOCOs walking towards him all dressed in white gear, phone outstretched.
“Marlow’s on the line. Been trying to get hold of you apparently.”
Fuck it. He’d turned his phone off for a reason. He wanted time with this crime scene. Real time to investigate. “Tell him I’m busy?”
“He says it’s important.”
Brian looked at the outstretched phone. Only way he was turning this down was by running away, and he was in no fit state to be doing anything of the sort.
He took the phone. Put it to his ear. “Marlow. Sorry about the—”
“Just continue speaking to me as if I am DCI Marlow. I have something for you.”
Brian was about to ask who it was. He felt his face turn. Wondered if anyone else saw it.
Then he looked the SOCO in the eye and wondered if even he knew that this man on the other end of the line definitely wasn’t his DCI.
“Marlow. Yeah. Sorry. My apologies. What’ve—”
“You’re going to go to 2 Victoria Road. There, you’ll find Alison West. She’s Carly Mahone’s best friend.”
“Why would I want to meet Alison ...” He coughed. Couldn’t sound too confident, not by pretending he was on the line to Marlow. “Why would I go there again?”
“You’ll see,” the man said.
And then the phone cut out to static.
Brian looked at the phone. Saw the unknown number. Felt a cold breeze brush against him.
“You okay?” Harriet asked.
Brian lifted his head. Looked at the body. Then at the SOCOs on the scene, the grass at the side of the verge, the pathway up to the roadside where traffic pummelled on and on.
“Yeah,” Brian said. “I ... I think I am.”
Twenty-Five
Brian still wasn’t sure exactly what he was getting into when he stood at the door of 2 Victoria Road and knocked.
It was a decent area. Posh old houses that Hannah always said looked “French” whenever they came down here. He didn’t like heading down the road too far though. Reminded him too much of Cassy Emerson, who used to live in a flat not far from here.
Memories, upturned like a flaky scab.
He never liked that. Did his best to avoid it.
Alison West’s house was one of the Victorian ones with the back gardens that stretched right down to the road running parallel. The garden was in good nick—flowers, well cut grass, that sorta thing. Even the brass handle that Brian rattled against the door felt pristine, like it was made of high-quality stuff.
The voice. The voice on the phone pretending to be Marlow to the SOCO, to Brian.
You’re going to go to 2 Victoria Road. There, you’ll find Alison West. She’s Carly Mahone’s best friend.
But who was the caller?
What did they know?
As the midday sun peeked through the trees, which cast a green hue over the sheltered garden, Brian got that iffy feeling again. That innate sense that something was wrong. Something was desperately “off” about this case.
He just didn’t have a clue what it was yet.
He looked through the frosted glass of the window. From one of the nearby houses, he could smell the rich fumes from a slow cooker. Beef. Gravy. Delicious. Absolutely delicious.
Then a reminder of the smells of the dead bodies returned to the forefront of his consciousness, snatched away his fantasy.
He looked at his phone. No calls. Nothing. He’d told work he was just off on lunch. 12.15 now. Didn’t have all that long. This Alison better hurry the fuck up.
But …
Dread started to build up inside. What did he really know about Alison West? Shit—what did he know about the caller? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He’d dug himself into holes of shit in the past. He didn’t want to do anything of the sort again.
He started to turn around when he saw movement behind the frosted glass.
He wasn’t sure whether to keep on walking. Pretend he hadn’t seen her. Walk off like he was just some kind of salesman, some kind of Jehovah’s Witness.
Then he heard the lock turn and the front door opened.
He saw the girl inside. She was young—probably in her early thirties, but hell did she look even more youthful. She had long strawberry-blonde hair hanging on her shoulders. Pale skin, angular features. Grey-blue eyes and plump red lips. She looked good. Hollywood good.
“Can I help you?”
Brian thought about walking. About waving goodbye and walking away.
But shit. He wasn’t a man to turn down a brew with a pretty woman.
If she offered him a brew, of course.
He walked back up the concrete cobbles leading towards her front door. “I … I know this probably seems a bit out of the blue, but are you Miss West?”
The woman blinked, her long eyelashes fluttering in the breeze. “Yeah. Yeah I am.”
“Miss West. I’m from the police. I’m looking into the death of … the deaths of Carly Mahone and Harry Galbraith.”
The colour dropped completely from Alison’s already pale face. Her eyes glistened. “Right. Yeah. I … Sorry. It’s just … it’s still all raw to me, y’know?”
Brian nodded. “That’s fine. I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you.”
“Right,” Alison said, dabbing her eyes with the sleeves of her cardigan. “Carly and me, we go way back, y’know? Right back to … to primary school. Shit. Just still can’t believe she’s gone.”
Brian nodded. Flattened his smile in a way that said, “I understand what it is you’re going through.”
Really, he was figuring out what to ask Alison. After all, the phone call had only told him to come here. That Alison would do the rest of the work.
The phone call. It’d been right about one thing. Alison lived here.
Now he just had to figure out what the hell it was she knew about Carly.
“You and Carly. You say you were good friends?”
“The best,” Alison said. “We had our fights, y’know. Like all girl friends do. But we stood by each other. Always went back to one another. Even when things got extra-shitty, we were always there one way or another.”
He stared Alison in her watery eyes. She just seemed like a normal girl, in her white blouse and knee-length skirt. Not the kind of girl who mixed with a friend who butchered animals for a living.
Which instantly turned the suspicion onto Harry.
“Did you get any … an indication from Carly that something was wrong?”
“Wrong with what?”
“With … Well. Did you know Mr Galbraith much?”
Alison opened her mouth. Then she let it hang there. Seemed to stare into space for a moment.
Her eyes refocused on Brian’s.
“Tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you come inside for a brew?”
Brian looked at his watch. 12.20. Shit. “Sorry but I really need to get this done as quickly as—”
“They’re watching us.”
Brian looked back up at Alison. Saw her smiling warmly at him. In complete contrast to the harsh, sudden words that spurted out of her mouth just moments ago.
“What … who’s—”
“Do you take sugar?” Alison asked. She put a hand around Brian’s sho
ulder. Eased him towards the door.
Brian wanted to know more. Wanted to know why she was acting so weird. Who was “watching” them. “I … No. No sugar. Thanks.”
“Wonderful,” Alison said.
She led Brian in through the front door.
Turned to close it.
“What was that all about?” Brian asked.
The smile had dropped from Alison’s face. In its place, a look of grief. A look of pure fear.
“Alison, what’s—”
“We don’t have long,” she said. “But you need to listen really closely to what I’m about to tell you. Can you do that?”
Brian still didn’t get Alison. Didn’t understand her fear. Didn’t understand this weird-as-fuck case, not anymore.
But he nodded. He nodded and said, “Yes. Course. That’s what I’m here for.”
Alison took in a deep breath. “Good,” she said, peeking through the blinds beside the door. “Because this is the only chance I’ll ever get to tell you about what happened.”
Twenty-Six
“So are you gonna tell me who you were on about before or am I gonna have to make this a formal interview?”
Brian sat in Alison West’s lounge. It was open, spacious, with a massive patio window that looked out over her garden, down towards the parallel street. But even though it was getting sunnier, even though light shone on the side of the house, the cream curtains were closed.
Closed, but for a crack.
Alison perched on the edge of her antique leather sofa. She had a chipped coffee cup in hand, but Brian wasn’t sure if she’d touched it since making them both a brew. She’d made Brian a tea, but he’d asked for it without sugar and it was sugary as hell so he’d have to just give it a miss.
She was preoccupied. That was for sure.
He just had to figure out what the hell was preoccupying her.
“When we were younger,” Alison said.
“You and Carly?”