A Need To Kill (DI Matt Barnes)

by Michael Kerr

  Once started, Beth couldn’t stop. She used Alec as a conduit to purge her of the fears and apprehension that was threatening to overwhelm her. By the time she ran out of words, she felt exhausted, wrung out like a dishcloth, but more at ease for having unburdened herself. The relaying of the good, bad and ugly components of her relationship with Matt had lessened the impact of it and smoothed off the sharp edges that had been burrowing into her consciousness.

  “What do you think, Doc?” she asked, surprised to see a fresh drink on the napkin in front of her. She had been too absorbed to notice Alec order another round with a gesture to the waitress, or to be aware of the girl setting the glasses down on the table.

  “Well, Doc, I get the picture,” Alec said, smiling. “You hardly mentioned yourself. It was all about this Barnes character, and his work. He’s like most professionals in any field of endeavour, Beth. What he does isn’t a job of work to him, it’s a vocation; a quest he is on that will never be concluded. It’s part of the package. It comes with him, and I suspect that an element of his courting extreme danger makes him what he is, and is a key factor in your being drawn to him.”

  “Then why am I feeling hesitant and reluctant to fully commit? I shouldn’t be having second thoughts.”

  “Commonsense is telling you to avoid being placed in danger again. But if you walk away, you will be one sad psychologist. You need to sit down with Matt and work out a way forward. If he loves you half as much as you obviously love him, then he will approach his cases with no less gusto and motivation, but will refrain from allowing it to become personal between himself and the quarry he hunts.”

  Beth knew that Alec was right. She could not properly look ahead into a future without Matt in it. But what he did was so dangerous. A part of her would always be waiting for a knock at the door, and for someone like Tom Bartlett to look into her eyes and impart the news that Matt had become a victim. A lot of his team had been killed in the line of duty, and he had been more than lucky to survive grave injuries.

  “It might be that because I love him so much, I’m more scared for him than myself, Alec. I look at the law of averages and wonder how many times he can come face to face with death and walk away in one piece.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like a layman, Beth. You are a highly qualified psychologist who studies the phenomena of the human mind and analyses its workings. You know that there are no happy endings, and that it is the journey that counts, for whatever duration it might transpire to last. You can drift along in some stagnant backwater, or get into the raging current and take the blows that are sure to follow. Whichever way you go, you still have a lot of bruises to suffer before life is done with you and spits you out.”

  “You think I should go for it, and damn the consequences?”

  “What I think doesn’t and shouldn’t matter. But for your own peace of mind, you need to reach down deep into your soul and ask yourself what you really want, and how you might feel in a year’s time if you go against the flow of what your heart and mind desires. Most times in life, you don’t get a second chance at true happiness. You end up making do with something less, and have to live with regret that’ll eat you up.”

  “I think I feel better for having talked it through, Alec. Thanks for being a real friend, and for being there when I needed reminding that everything comes at a price.”

  “You’re welcome. Shall we have one for the road? And I’ll ask the pianist to play a request. Is there any tune you’d like to hear?”

  “How about...Young at Heart, and I’ll try to remember the time I believed that fairy tales could come true.”

  “They can, Beth. But they’re not often served up on a plate. You’ve got to work for them, and have the strength of will to turn what you want from dream to reality.”

  It was one a.m. when Beth got back to her room, undressed and pulled on a fluffy courtesy robe. She was not smashed, just a little squiffy and mellow, and fumbled for a good ten seconds to find the armhole of one of the robe’s sleeves, before falling back across the bed. She giggled. Felt more relaxed than she had for days; maybe weeks. Alec had loosened the deadlock that had stopped her from climbing out of a self-imposed quagmire of negativity. What the hell was she doing in New York? She was running away from everything that mattered, which was Matt. The distance between them was now a wide gulf that she found almost unbearable. She rushed over to the easy chair next to the window, snatched up her handbag and delved among the contents until she found the small presentation box. Opening it, she removed the solitaire diamond ring and pushed it onto her finger. Just wearing it again made her feel closer to Matt. She had removed it on the flight over to JFK, and could not now understand what had possessed her to do so. Cold feet! Her commitment to a man with such a turbulent history, and who being with had been such a violent and risk-filled experience, had struck home and caused her to question her own emotions. She had gone into psychologist mode and begun to evaluate the relationship. But you could not put love into any equation and expect to come up with a rational solution. The human condition was not one that could easily be governed by logic. It made no real sense at all.

  It was now a little past six a.m. in the UK. Not that the time mattered. He could be anywhere: at the Yard, at home in bed, or maybe out on a case, chasing down some creature that lived outside normal parameters and chose to take life instead of embrace it. No matter. She had his home, mobile and work numbers. She picked up the phone and took a deep breath.

  Matt was sitting in the lounge with the lights out. He had planned on a shower and a couple of hours’ sleep. Instead, he had poured a large scotch and smoking too much as he let his mind drift between the case, Beth, and anything else that randomly coalesced in his overtired brain. Shit! The ghosts of his parents and fallen comrades pushed their way into his thoughts, to appear uninvited. He did not want to be bombarded by vivid memories of what had gone before and could not be modified.

  Stubbing out yet another cigarette end in the brimming ashtray, he reached for the pack and flipped the lid open. Empty. He crumpled it and tossed it onto the coffee table. There were no more cigarettes in the house. He got up, dismissed the depressing images that had been flitting across the screen of his mind, and went into the kitchen to build another scotch rocks. He was letting everything get to him. Felt like a pressure cooker that was on the verge of blowing its lid. He had always been able to stay detached and deal with whatever came up in his stride. But the accumulation of everything that had happened over the last twelve months had somehow diminished his resolve; sapped him of the strength of will that he had always taken as a given. You can only maintain anything for so long. As an erstwhile golfer, he remembered the great Arnold Palmer hacking round Augusta in 2004. At seventy-four, Arnie had finally conceded to the march of time. After racking up fifty appearances at the Masters, it was time to step down. His tearful interview, after yet again failing to make the cut, was telling. He pointed out that he still felt as competitive as he ever had, back in his heyday, but that his ageing body was not up to the task. Everything and everyone had their time. Matt wondered if he was burning out under the pressure that he had always courted and felt in control of. He was jaded, and could not think of one positive thing that was happening in his life. Beth seemed to be slipping away from him, and he didn’t think he could change enough to stop the slide.

  His mobile bleated. He sighed, took a deep breath and walked through to where it lay next to the TV’s remote.

  “Barnes.”

  “Were you asleep?”

  “No. Just sitting and thinking.”

  “What about?”

  “Oh, this and that.”

  “Miss me?”

  “Do bears shit in the woods?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “How’s the Big Apple?”

  “Cold, noisy. Same old, same old.”

  “I rang earlier.”

  “I was down at the bar. Do you remember me talking
about Alec Hoffman?”

  “The old shrink who trains the rookie profilers at the FBI academy?”

  “The one and only. I let him buy me a couple of JDs, and talked about you.”

  “My ears weren’t burning.”

  “Should have been. I told him all about you...Us.”

  “Looking for answers to questions that don’t have any?”

  “You got it.”

  “And?”

  “He thinks I should stop moping around and get on with the rest of my life.”

  “Sounds good advice.”

  “I thought I’d pack my case and get out of Dodge in the morning. Unless you can think of any reason why I shouldn’t.”

  “What about the seminar? The hospital might hit you for the airfare if you walk away.”

  “So you think I should stay?”

  Matt caught the hurt in her voice. “I think you should hurry back, but it’s only for a few more days, so why not enjoy it, and buy me something expensive on Fifth Avenue when you get time to shop.”

  “Are we all right, Matt?”

  “We are from where I’m sitting. I thought it was you that was coming down with a bout of commonsense and wondering how you’d got in so deep with a cop who keeps trying to get you killed.”

  “I decided that I’d miss the thrill of wondering whether I would live long enough to get grey hair.”

  “You mean to say that brunette thatch isn’t out of a bottle?”

  “You make a better cop than a comedian. Are you on a new case?”

  “Yeah. But let’s not go there.”

  “Okay. Phone me tomorrow night...if you get chance.”

  “Deal. I’ll try to remember you’re five hours behind. I love you, Beth.”

  “I love you, too. Be careful.”

  “Careful is my middle name.”

  Beth laughed.

  After they had spent another three minutes deciding who would hang up, Matt went for a shower with a bounce in his step. He was up again, instantly reinvigorated at the sound of Beth’s voice, and in the knowledge that she was not about to dump him. He had an insecure side to his character around women. Didn’t know why they would find anything about him attractive. He spent much of his time in a sleazy world, which by its very nature tainted the spirit of all but the most insensitive, who could move through it without the humanity to be affected. He was not immune to the suffering that one man could inflict on another. Every case took its toll and exacted a price. He did not have the ability or desire to stay on the outside of what he did. He was a hands on, get down and dirty kind of guy, who had to care passionately if he was to be able to function at the level necessary to doggedly persevere and, more importantly, be convinced that he would win out over adversity.

  It was still dark when he left the house and set off back to the Yard. Sleep was put on hold. He would grab an hour when he could.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Marsha Freeman’s best friend was, in the past tense, Caroline Foster, another ex-model, who now runs a riding school in Bumble’s Green, out in Essex,” Pete said. “You want me to take one of the lads and have a word with her?”

  “No. I’ll go with you. She’ll know more about Marsha than anyone else. You’re driving.”

  “I thought you were going to see Colin Westin?”

  “I’ll catch up with him this afternoon. Come on, let’s get out into the sticks and see what gems this Foster woman can give us.”

  The Chestnut Horse Riding Centre was in green belt, situated on a lane off the B194, and appeared to be a medium-sized concern that offered a wide range of services.

  Pete parked next to a converted windmill that had a sign: OFFICE-OPEN hanging on the inside of the glass-panelled door. He and Matt walked in and stood at the counter that fronted a small office.

  A stony-faced, middle-aged woman wearing too much makeup, a quilted parka, and with a cigarette bobbing between her puffy collagen-filled lips said, “Can I help you?” from where she was sitting at a computer.

  “Yes,” Pete said, holding up his ID. “We’d like to speak to Caroline Foster.”

  “I’m Caroline’s mother, dear. Perhaps you could tell me what the problem is.”

  “I don’t think so, Mrs. Foster,” Matt said. “It’s Caroline we need to have a word with.”

  “It’s Mrs. Fairbanks, dear. Although there is no Mr. Fairbanks these days. He drowned in that terrible ferry disaster. You’ll find Caroline in the stables behind the mill.”

  Matt thanked her and beat a hasty retreat with Pete close behind him.

  “You think that her late husband tied a breeze block to his ankles and threw himself overboard, dear?” Pete said.

  Matt grinned. “You have a warped sense of humour. And don’t call me dear again, or I’ll have to kill you.”

  They both adopted a suitably sombre expression as a tall, attractive young woman wearing jodhpurs and riding boots below a chunky, zipped up fleece approached them from a stable block.

  “Ms. Foster?” Matt said, opening his wallet to let her see his warrant card.

  She inspected it, not just giving it the cursory glance that most civilians did, but seemingly digesting every word.

  “What can I do for you, Detective Inspector Barnes?” she asked in a refined, velvety voice.

  “Tell us all you can about Marsha Freeman.”

  Matt saw her eyes widen. Genuine concern is hard to fake.

  “What has happened?” Caroline demanded. “Tell me.”

  Matt didn’t gift wrap it. “She was found strangled to death, Ms. Foster.”

  Caroline closed her eyes. Her smooth brow furrowed as she fought to maintain her composure. One deep breath and she was back in control, her emotions under wraps. She opened her eyes and stared at Matt. He was impressed by her poise, and by the strength of character that emanated from the ex-model. That he did not have to lower his gaze was also an uncommon event. He was six feet tall, in shoes, and Caroline was the same height.

  “Let’s go into the office and discuss this,” she said, striding past them and around the front of the circular-shaped building.

  “Mother, stop smoking in the fucking office and go and make some tea or coffee for these gentlemen,” Caroline said as Matt closed the door behind them.

  Rosalie Fairbanks scuttled out from behind the desk and went into another room; a cigarette still sprouting from her mouth.

  “And close the door, Mother.”

  Formidable was the adjective that came to Matt’s mind. Caroline Foster was headstrong, used to being in control of any given situation, and had the air of a woman who considered men second rate human beings, that the world might be a better place without.

  Pete was dumbstruck. He pegged the haughty-looking blonde in skin-tight breeches for a dyke, or maybe the type who would insist on being sat astride her men, loath to adopt the position of underdog in any conceivable way. The image of her on top of him and her breasts jiggling a few inches from his face was a turn on. He had no intention of cheating on Marci, but could still fantasise. A man’s thoughts were best kept firmly to himself. Whoever coined the phrase ‘Honesty is the best policy’ was a saint or an idiot.

  “Take a seat,” Caroline said.

  They did.

  “We believe that you were Marsha’s best friend Ms. Foster, and―”

  “Caroline,” she interrupted. “Yes, I was very close to Marsha. We used to be on the circuit together. And before you ask, I don’t know anyone who would harm her. She...you know what she did. But she did not have what you might term as rough trade. She entertained very well-heeled and sophisticated gentlemen. If any man can be defined as being gentle.”

  “Did you know about the address book and videos?” Matt asked.

  An instant too long hesitation. “No. We did not discuss what she did. She knew it made me feel very uncomfortable.”

  Her eyes had slipped away from Matt’s. She was lying. Her body language said so. He had interviewed hundreds of
suspects over the years, and only a handful knew intuitively how to lie with their whole being, and not with just words.

  “I need your full cooperation, Caroline,” Matt said, opening his briefcase and withdrawing an envelope with 8x10’s of Marsha’s corpse. “Look at those if you’ve got the stomach to. Then let’s start again from the top.”

  Pete gave Matt a searching look. Showing her the prints of the victim seemed to be a gratuitous act, which was out of character for Matt.

  Caroline knocked the envelope away as Matt held it out. “Don’t try to shock me into saying anything that would incriminate Marsha or soil her, Inspector. I will not play your unsavoury mind games.”

  Matt raised the envelope again. “I don’t play games, Caroline. Whoever did this to Marsha also did exactly the same to a sixteen-year-old girl. We need to stop him before he strikes again. We call this type of animal a repeat, ritual or serial killer. They don’t stop. You were lying to me about the book and tapes. Have the balls to look at what this man is capable of. We have no intention of tainting the memory of Marsha. Our only objective is to save lives.”

  The silence that followed was almost unbearable. Neither Matt nor Pete broke it.

  Caroline searched Matt’s eyes for what lay behind them. She found an honesty that she doubted he could manufacture. She took the envelope from his hand with finger and thumb, the way one would hesitantly, reluctantly pick up a vial containing an unknown and deadly form of virus. She slid the photographs out onto the desktop and stepped back with both hands to her mouth to almost but not quite stifle a low, plaintive moan.

  Matt was not proud of the effect that the image of Marsha’s naked, mutilated corpse had on the woman who had been her best friend. He had in some way sullied himself by resorting to such shock tactics. Did the end always justify the means? He somehow doubted it at that moment, but knew that he would use any trick in the book to capture his as yet unknown quarry. He scooped up the envelope and prints and returned them to his briefcase.