by Limey Lady
‘Sorry,’ she said out loud. ‘I know it’s a bad sign. It just happens to be true.’
SERIAL KILLERS brought up lots of vaguely familiar images and surprisingly few naked tarts of any nationality Waterman immediately recognized Vlad the Impaler, Ted Bundy, that Russian head case who had run up an impressive score and Richard Ramirez. Paging down, she saw others with less memorable names but faces she’d seen before. Manson was there, of course. So were several female serial killers.
She switched back to Web, noting there were a slightly more manageable thirty-one million hits.
Where to begin? How would he do it?
A moment’s hesitation ensued. Should she really be doing this in her spare time? Far too many of her colleagues thought she was career-driven as it was. That wasn’t strictly true. She dearly loved her work and had previously put the hours in, but only in the common interest. She had had most of the promotions she’d set out to get already. She honestly didn’t want any more.
There again, this case was the big one. And there were far fewer interruptions in her kitchen than there were at the station . . .
*****
Heather couldn’t sleep either, which was unusual for her. Normally, unless she had company, she drifted off as soon as her head hit the pillow.
I must be overexcited about Krista, she thought, reaching for her favourite Rabbit.
She laughed out loud. Is it Pat McGuire who’s keeping me awake?
Or is it what I’m arranging between Graham and Vic . . .
Truth be told, she didn’t know why she was pushing her two favourite lovers together . . . okay, both her lovers together. Since her marathon gap year she’d limited herself to one boyfriend and one girlfriend. There had been others now and then, but not many, and all of them short-lived (apart from Mary Rose, of course, and she didn’t blinking-well count). Yet here she was . . .
Well it was crazy behaviour. She knew . . . she just knew . . . that Graham and Vic would hit it off in a big way. Graham had been expressing his admiration for the long-legged, semi-Italian for years and Vic claimed she hadn’t had a real-life willy this millennium. It stood to reason that they would hit it off. In fact they couldn’t fail to hit it off.
So where will that leave me? Heather wondered. Free to go running after new boys and girls?
Her running after boys . . . that was a laugh. Although she couldn’t begin to challenge Vic’s incredible stretch of abstinence from men, she had not had a brand-new real-life willy since her early days at BYB. No, scrap brand-new . . . Graham aside, she had had three virtually willy-free years; three years and still counting! And now she was on the verge of throwing it all away . . .
Willy-nilly . . .
Or should it be willy-nully . . .
She would never admit it but, for all her scandalous past, Heather was inexplicably afraid of taking a new man. Her, the girl who used to get off best at the very idea of new! Her, the girl who’d set worldwide, all-time university records!!
Thank God Krista’s got a fanny. If she had an untrustworthy willy I might very well chicken!
Yes, me! As if I have reason to be paranoid!
She clicked the Rabbit onto its slowest setting . . . leaving the ears inactive for now . . . and eased the business end inside herself. Doing her best to imagine Pat McGuire easing inside . . . then recalling Sean “Jack the Hat” Dwyer easing inside for real.
Graham’s willy always felt good in her. So did most willies, come to that, artificial or real. Her inherent appetite for girls hadn’t ever detracted from the feel of a nice, hard willy. No, her paranoia had far deeper roots . . .
*****
Waterman checked the time at the bottom of her screen. Half past midnight, give or take. She could do four hours. That would surely guarantee her two or three hours’ kip before going in to work. And it would probably guarantee her sweet dreams as well.
It was impossible not to smile. Waterman had vivid dreams. Indeed, when someone at school had told her that dreams in colour came true, she’d been mystified; her dreams had always been in colour. Okay, she could hardly ever remember them and was sure they rarely came true, but to even imagine dreaming in black and white . . .
What was that all about?
The sexy dreams had started when she’d been in her teens. At least, so she believed. It was possible they had started sooner and she hadn’t registered them. She had definitely been in her teens on the night she’d woken from the signal one that produced her first orgasm. She knew that because she still had the diary, marking the occasion, written in shaky, girlish writing only minutes after the event. Written as soon as she had realized what had just happened to her.
After that first big thrill she’d seemed to have sexy dreams every other night; sexy to the extent of very often being drenched. Slightly worried, she’d gone to the reference library and read up on the topic. She’d been glad to find that all the experts said it was nothing to be embarrassed about. Not for boys or girls. It was only a release of tension, she persuaded herself . . . and if some of the dreams were a bit weird, then so what?
Dreaming about shagging the headmaster isn’t going to hurt anyone. It’s not as if I’m ever going to have to do it with the old so-and-so, is it?
Like most people, Waterman had an inbuilt fear of medical matters. Merely hearing symptoms could convince her she was suffering from some terrible disease. Her, someone who never ailed! Back then, in her schooldays, hiding self-consciously in the most remote corner of the library, it had been a relief to see all the positive words. The conclusion of one woman doctor (aimed at her fellow women rather than all those spotty teenage boys) had particularly impressed.
Don’t be ashamed, be very GRATEFUL.
Waterman still was grateful. After that early influx of sexy dreams they had levelled out at one a week. They hadn’t stopped after she’d passed twenty-one and were unaffected by any real-life sex she may or may not be having.
At least, the ones she remembered weren’t.
Her smile widened. ‘One a week,’ she mused. ‘Who’s to say it’s not five a night?’
Not her. Nowadays she woke mid-orgasm once a week. Very rarely drenched the bed . . .
Anyway, she’d only ever counted the ones which woke her up. And it had to be a week since her last pleasant awakening. She was well overdue another. If she could ever get to sleep, that was.
She opened a new Excel spread-sheet and titled the first tab LIST. Then she saved the file as OH MR BASTARD and opened a Wikipedia article listing serial killers by country.
Is this how he would do it?
Come to that, has he already done this?
She paused. Her boss was, for all his rough edges, her idea of the perfect copper. Years ago, when she’d had a stupid fling with an older, married colleague, he’d laughed. ‘Been there,’ he’d said, ‘got the T-shirt.’ Then he’d told her to leave it with him and somehow sorted things out. Within a fortnight the older colleague had been promoted and transferred. God knew how Carlisle had done it, but it had been of his doing, she was sure it was. He had never taken her up on her part in the affair, either; wouldn’t have ever mentioned it again if she hadn’t cornered him weeks later, at a leaving do when they’d both been in drink.
‘You’re a good copper,’ was all he’d say. ‘Next time make sure it doesn’t end in tears.’
There hadn’t been a next time. She’d taken care of that. Eight years had passed since then: eight years and probably sixteen boyfriends, not one of them in the Job.
‘He can’t have,’ she muttered, still staring at her screen. ‘He hates to waste anything. And wasted time is worst of all.’
She focused on Wikipedia’s list. There were loads and loads of possibilities on there. None with the initials HX or XH, though. Not that she’d expected the exercise to be as easy as that.
Okay, first things first. The scientists and profilers haven’t suggested anything useful. Mr Bastard has, however, given us plenty to g
o on. Those things he does mean something; they have to do. And he has to be getting his ideas from somewhere.
Where else if not his predecessors?
The plan was to go back to first principles. Put together her own list of every last serial killer since the original Ripper, including relevant facts: victim type; numbers killed; method of dispatch; signatures . . . all that sort of stuff.
She would triple-check everything, of course, never taking any “fact” as gospel until it had been totally verified.
And then she’d find the link . . . meaning a real link, not a profiler’s vague indication.
Waterman indulged in yet another pause. If she could have guaranteed immediate sleep and a sexy dream, she would be back in bed in a flash. Although she couldn’t do that, she could arrange an hour on xHamster. The videos on there wouldn’t send her nodding, but if she followed them with a big fantasy and a little self-abuse . . .
Fantasies were so much safer, too. You could control them. Let in nice, attractive people like Jack Carlisle. Keep out the riffraff. Dreams were far more risky. Apart from being almost instantly forgotten, dreams could be gate-crashed. Ayling had gate-crashed a few of hers, which was as utterly outrageous as it could get; she’d never knowingly let him anywhere near her wildest fantasy.
Not even her most perverted, wildest fantasy.
It was the thought of Carlisle losing sleep that decided it. Mr Bastard was undoubtedly closely linked to Carlisle’s most special case. Although she appreciated the irony in solving the old riddle (yet another of those promotions might take her off his team, in charge of her own), she couldn’t let that stand in her way. His special case was, by definition, her special case.
She only hoped the grumpy old so-and-so turned up later to thank her.
In a dream or three . . .
Preferably full of beans and ready to rattle her bones.
Chapter Fourteen
(Friday 9th May 2008)
The Kings Table Ristorante had closed to the public more than an hour ago. Marco, the maître d’ had, however, stayed behind so he could personally cook for his special guests. He had persuaded his best-looking waitresses to stay too, wanting to provide eye candy as well as service. It was what at least one of these customers would want so, as a born caterer, he had catered for that as well as the food.
And, seeing as that customer actually owned the place . . .
Pat didn’t own any business and didn’t want to. All he wanted was an easy life. He watched his life-long friend sip wine and waited for him to speak. Early indications were good. Sean had been in a foul mood for the last month; today he seemed almost normal.
‘Delicious,’ he said, nodding at his glass. ‘That's the first booze I've had in a fortnight.’
‘Nice one,’ said Pat, ‘your liver will be proud of you.’
‘It is, along with everything else. I'll have to try it again sometime. I feel really good. Pumping iron this morning was dead easy.’
Pat had to admit Sean looked well. His bender had been the worst he could remember, going on well over a week. At one stage it had started to look like he might blob his mother's funeral. He'd turned things round before it came to that, but then he’d done an encore . . . for another week and a bit. He really had looked like shit for a while. Now his eyes were clear again and his skin had a healthy glow. Pretty soon he'd have women knocking on his door again. The waitresses were already giving him admiring glances.
The little whores.
Pat knew everything about Sean; his success with women was no great mystery. In fact it was all too simple to be true. As well as being a sweet-talking, handsome bastard, Sean had absolutely no refractory period. He could go again and again, time after time.
And Pat didn’t just have this from his mate’s constant bragging; he’d heard it from several satisfied customers over the years.
He drank more wine to cover his grin. He’d always been a good, attentive listener and girls liked that; it encouraged them to come out with all sorts. Because of this, and because he was known to be discreet, he’d heard enough to keep track of the real Sean behind the shifting images.
The rave reviews had persisted until Sean hit his mid-twenties, an age where the local ladies seemed to be more discerning. He was still in demand, of course, but that had been when Pat began to get less-satisfied feedback.
Sean had staying power, but his technique was crap.
Two hundred iffy pokes weren’t as good as ten skilful ones.
At least when he’d got it hopelessly wrong, he’d been able to start over straightaway . . .
Heartening things like that.
Not that Sean struggled; not then and not now. He still attracted babes like a magnet. It was the type of babe that had changed, not him. His latest market was the older, more mature woman, usually in the thirty-to-forty age band, often married or separated and always hungry for cock. Pat reckoned these more mature ladies didn’t overvalue technique and were mostly happy with what they got. Or, in a couple of cases, anything they could get. Whatever the reason, they kept on coming and probably made up half of Sean’s current sex-life. The other half were still young and unreasonably horny . . . and probably happy enough with whatever they got too.
Talking about happy, Sean’s smirk was starting to annoy. He looked like a dog with two dicks.
‘Come on then,’ Pat commanded. ‘Spill it. What's making you so smug?’
‘Smug? Me?’ Sean laughed. ‘I'm just glad to be here, waiting for one of Marco's best steaks. I haven't had one of them for a fortnight either, come to think of it.’
As though on cue, the two waitresses approached their table and presented them each with a super-sized fillet.
‘Enjoy your meals,’ the first waitress said brightly.
‘Let us know if you need anything else,’ the other added.
Sean turned in his chair to watch them retreat to the kitchen.
‘Which one do you fancy for anything else? I think the brunette’s your best bet. Not that I want you to stray while DeeDee's away, of course.’
‘Dee’ll be back in a couple of hours,’ Pat said evenly. ‘After next week she'll be working in Leeds and living with me all the time. I'm not going to screw that up by straying with young girls.’
‘Well said that man!’ Sean applauded sarcastically, ‘I'll just have to fuck ‘em both myself.’
‘You’ve always been a greedy bastard.’
‘And you’ve always been a jealous twat.’
They concentrated on their steaks. It was a minute or two before Sean spoke again. ‘So you'll be out shopping for that new wallpaper, then?’
‘Actually . . .’ Pat hesitated. ‘Actually, we might be shopping for more than just wallpaper. Dee wants me to move to Leeds with her. Have a fresh start and all that.’
‘Is this a resignation?’
‘More like another semi-retirement.’
Sean poured them both more wine. Pat took the fact he hadn't gone off like Krakatau to be a good sign; promising, even.
‘I need you until I'm fully legit,’ Sean said eventually. ‘Can't you give me two more years?’
‘Yes,’ said Pat instantly. Then laughed: ‘It'll take Dee two years to find somewhere she likes, anyway.’
‘Will you really though?’ Sean persisted. ‘I need you more now than ever. Tell me there won’t be any disappearing act after six months?’
‘Come on. You know me. If I say two years I mean two years.’
‘Say it then.’
‘Two years. No less . . . and probably no more.’
‘Two years.’ Sean raised his glass and Pat joined him in the toast.
‘Right then; now are you going to tell me why you're in such a good mood?’
Sean double-checked to make sure they couldn't be overheard.
‘Remember that business in Bradford the other month; that's it for Williamson for the time being. He's getting a lot of heat from the local Filth. He's stood everybody down
indefinitely.’
Pat frowned. It was an open secret that the Williamsons had taken out Gladstone Smith. Well, open to everyone except the police, that was. He’d been under the impression the heat levels were non-existent.
‘How do you know?’
‘It's to go no further . . . but I've got a mole in there.’
Now Pat gaped. ‘You’ve got a mole?’
‘Yeah; it took a lot of doing. And it's been a long time waiting for him to produce something. But yeah, I've got a mole. He came up with the goods last night.’