by Michael Kerr
“This is too heavy for me,” Matt said, turning his empty glass upside down on the tabletop to signify that he was done. “You need to just go with the flow, do what needs doing, and not worry too much about what might happen tomorrow. Whatever is waiting along the road will be there for you to deal with when you reach it. Why knock yourself out over something you can’t outguess. If you have a dream, work towards it. Whether you attain it or not is beside the point. It’s the process that counts. You have to have a good reason to get out of bed every morning.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Ron said, finishing his own scotch. “The show must go on, eh?”
“Yeah,” Matt said. “It’s the only game in town.”
Ron gave them a key to a room on the first floor. They went up, quickly undressed and climbed into bed, to snuggle up between the cold sheets.
Even as Matt held Beth close and thought to start foreplay that would lead to their making love, the electronic signature music of his mobile phone pierced the silence. He reluctantly got out of bed, fumbled the phone from his jacket pocket and dropped it on his foot. It bounced off, and he had to go to the door and turn on the light to find it. He snatched it up from the faded carpet and sat on the end of the bed to answer it.
“Barnes,” he said.
“It’s Dave, boss. I just got a call from a guy who wants to talk to you. He said he would get back to me in five minutes. Implied he was involved in the Freeman case, and that he was watching when you arrested McCall.”
“You got a trace ready to go?”
“Yeah, boss.”
“Okay, hang up. I’ll call back by land line and you can patch me through to him.”
“What?” Beth said as Matt walked around the side of the bed, picked up the receiver of the room phone, stabbed 9 for an outside line and phoned the incident room.
“Nothing yet,” Dave Brent said.
“I’ll hold.”
“What’s happening?” Beth asked again.
“Some guy called the Yard and asked for me. He could be a crackpot, but he told Dave Brent that he was the person that we’re looking for.”
“Asked for you?”
“For the officer in charge of the case. Appears he was at the museum and saw me holding my gun to McCall’s head.”
“Don’t talk to him, Matt. You know what will happen. He’ll latch on and be in your life...and mine.”
“He won’t talk to anyone else. I’ll play it cool. But I have to speak to him. You know that.”
“I’m putting him through now, boss,” Dave said. “We’re running a trace.”
“Hello,” Matt said, his eyes still locked on Beth’s. She was looking at him as she might if he had just shot her pet dog, had she owned one.
“What’s your name, cop?”
“Detective Inspector Matt Barnes. What’s yours?”
“Very funny. Let’s make this quick. I know you’ll be having this traced, so the quicker I get off and throw the phone away, the better. All you need to know, Barnes, is that I hold you totally responsible for stealing my money. You―”
“Your money?” Matt interjected. “Since when was it your money?”
“I did a deal with Villiers. You stuck your nose in and queered it. Someone owes me fifty grand. I’ve decided that it may as well be you.”
“Did you set McCall up for the murders you committed?”
“That was the idea. I thought that if he did get lifted, then you would nail him for my mischief. Thing is, when I read that he’d topped himself, I didn’t see anything about him being a killer, just a junkie who was being held for questioning in respect of attempted blackmail.”
“When did―?”
“Enough, Barnes. I want my money and my ring back. I’ll call you again, soon. And if you decide not to pay, then another tart will be served up. And then another, until you realise that I mean business.”
Matt was about to tell the anonymous killer to go and fuck himself; that he had more chance of getting a knighthood than of receiving a penny, but the line went dead.
Lucas removed the SIM card from the mobile, threw the phone out into the canal – for the murky water to swallow up; another secret to hoard, until the day that a dredger might be employed to divulge the gathered bric-a-brac and sundry items – and crushed the card before flicking it into the spreading ring of concentric circles. Maybe this would be a fitting resting place for his new acquisition, when he eventually tired of it. Weighted down in a heavy duty plastic bag with its guts slashed open to prevent gases building up and maybe bringing the abomination to the surface, the body would rot in its own juices, to become just a sack of soup and bones.
He made his way back to where he had parked the van. Considered that he may have been a little impetuous in letting the police know that he was still alive and well. They would have tried to convince themselves that the no-hoper he had employed to wear his ring and collect the money was the killer they sought. With him now dead, it would be easy for them to fit him up for it. But where was the fun in that? He was not about to stop, and did not want a pathetic individual like McCall to have the infamy that belonged to him.
Back home, Lucas needed to be busy. He put a heavy metal CD on in the studio and went to work. The place was looking tired and in need of a makeover. He unscrewed and took down the wallboards that were overlaid with photographs and designs to advertise his artistry with the needle. He would wash the walls and ceiling, scrub the floor, and redecorate. A coat of paint would not go amiss. He was wide awake, and his brain was racing with plans for the future, and of the unknown experiences waiting for him to convert from imagination to reality.
It was morning by the time he had scrupulously cleaned every surface. It would have been safe to eat off the sparkling floor, though the food would have been tainted as a result of the copious amounts of pine-scented disinfectant that he had used. He had even begun painting. One wall was now jade green. He looked at his wristwatch. He would have to shower and eat something. There was a customer due in forty minutes; a professional footballer who wanted a Celtic cross on his chest. Word of mouth was bringing a more elite clientele to his door. He would have to charge more. As a rule, people with too much money expected to pay top prices. It made them feel that what they were getting was exclusive.
The bell above the door jangled and two men entered as he was putting the lid back on the paint can.
Cops didn’t have a smell, but they had a look about them; hard, suspicious eyes that took in everything, and a sense of arrogance, based on the mistaken belief that they were safe behind some protective shield that being enforcers of obtuse laws imparted. But they were not safe; not from him.
Errol and Mark were getting a little weary of calling at tattoo parlours. People who wanted to be indelibly decorated with drawings on various parts of their anatomy were imbeciles in Mark’s book.
“Good morning, sir,” Mark said, showing his warrant card to the man who was wearing a paint-spattered grey tracksuit.
“Is it?” Lucas said as he tore a few sheets of kitchen towel from a roll to wipe his hands with. “What can I do for you gentlemen? Perhaps a Welsh dragon on your arm, DC Jones? And how about Nelson Mandela’s face on your left buttock, Officer?” he said to Errol.
Errol set the man with a cold stare that was loaded with the desire to knock the sardonic smile off his face. The shaven headed young man stared back with undisguised glee at having irritated him.
“Are you Lucas Downey?” Mark said.
“The one and only. And you are in INK MAGIC BY LUCAS, which is without doubt the finest tattoo studio in all the land.”
“What kind of tattoos do you do, sir?” Mark inquired, looking around at the bare walls.
“Any that I am commissioned to, and that are not pornographic or racist,” he said, glancing back to Errol.
Mark opened the top of the document wallet he was carrying and took out several well-thumbed 8x10s. They showed close-ups of the tattoos that had sur
vived the burning of the corpse found at Grove Park.
“Do you recognise this work, sir?” Mark said as he handed them to Lucas.
Lucas studied each one in turn, frowning and shaking his head. “Are these on a dead body?”
“What would make you think that, sir?” Errol said.
“Because if the subject was able to, he or she would be able to tell you all you want to know about them.”
“And are they of a style that you are familiar with?”
Lucas gave them back to Mark. “’Fraid not, Officer. Do you know how many tattoo artists are operating in the Greater London area?”
“We do now,” Errol said.
“What’s the connection between a corpse and the tattoos on it?” Lucas pushed.
“Identification,” Mark said. “Whoever did this work will no doubt be able to give us a name. The young woman in question was unrecognisable.”
“Sorry I can’t help,” Lucas said. “The tattoos in the photographs do appear to be of a high standard, though, so you may get lucky. If it had been some unlicensed amateur’s work, then you’d be wasting your time. Have you bought copies of the many magazines that showcase a lot of work? You may come across this particular style if you do.”
“Thank you for your time, sir,” Mark said, replacing the photos into the envelope.
“No sweat,” Lucas said. “And please, take my card and pin it up on a notice board back at the station. I’ll give ten percent discount to any officer who wants to make him or herself a little more colourful and interesting.”
When the two cops left, Lucas locked the door and dropped into the chair that was the centrepiece of the studio. He laid his head back on the padded rest and closed his eyes. They had found parts of the young whore he had burned. It was almost beyond belief that any of her skin had not been destroyed by the inferno. But he was in no danger. They were just canvassing tattoo parlours, trying to identify the charred remains in their keeping. He giggled to himself. It would appear that he had a guardian angel of the dark and fallen variety. On a whim, after shaving his new lodger, he had used the clippers to remove his own hair. And as though some portent had been subconsciously at work, he had taken all his promotional artwork down and started to redecorate the premises. Had he a gift; a power of sixth sense that although he was not aware of, had come to his aid? It would not surprise him. He was without doubt a very special individual, so it was no wonder that he possessed superhuman abilities. He wondered if the police had linked the tattooed remains to the murders of the other redheads. He would assume that they had. He could not afford to underestimate Barnes and his posse. These were enemies to be given credit for their skills in solving what they perceived to be unlawful acts. But he was smarter than them. He now knew that they suspected the murderer might well be a tattoo artist, and some of the work in the photographs he had been shown was undoubtedly recognisable as his style. He would have to be ultra careful. Keeping prey up in the loft was a perilous venture. He should dispose of it and batten down the hatches for a while until the storm passed. But the risk made it so much more exhilarating. His new-found early warning system would guide him. If sirens and blinking red lights started up in his head, then he would dump the material in the canal. But he was not on their radar, yet. They were just following a slim lead and seeing where it might lead them. He now knew the direction they were looking in.
Julie was dozing. Too much sustained anxiety had exhausted her. When she woke from the no man’s land between slumber and full consciousness, she could hear a distant drone. It was a familiar sound. What was it? A jet. An airliner was passing above where she was imprisoned. And even before the sound faded, the bark of a dog startled her. All she had was her hearing. Her other senses were of little use to her in this plastic-lined chamber. She could see the shiny black film, and touch it. She could smell urine and disinfectant from the chemiloo. The fumes were stinging her eyes and the sensitive linings of her nostrils. But it was the ability to hear sounds from outside her prison that saved her reason. She lay with her eyes closed and savoured every aural titbit. A car backfired. A door slammed, and a woman’s voice screamed, ‘put that down Tommy, an’ get in the bleedin’ ’ouse, now!’
It all meant something. Julie now knew – for what it might be worth – that she was not in some remote location out in the country in an isolated farmhouse. And she was not underground, which was a relief. She suffered from claustrophobia, and the belief that she might be below ground in some type of bunker or cellar had increased her panic. In fact she believed that most of the exterior sounds, apart from the jet engines, were rising up to where she was imprisoned. The overall implication was that she was in a house, maybe an attic, and in a built-up residential area, and that it was daytime. This monster had taken her to his home. If she disobeyed him and screamed at the top of her lungs, she may be heard. But if no one took any notice, or could not pinpoint the source, then she would face being subjected to any manner of physical abuse. And he would gag and tie her up again. She could not take the risk. Someone laughed. It was difficult to envisage life going on as usual all around her. She was cut off from the world she was accustomed to and had taken for granted. What she would give this second to be at the Petal Soft Laundry, labouring in the steamy heat. She would not complain over the cramped, noisy working conditions, or the damp, hot air that caused the perspiration to sheen her face, soak her hair, and run down the small of her back, to feed between her arse cheeks and cause a sweat rash. All past adversity paled into insignificance under the weight of her present circumstances. She was up against a foe that she could not hope to escape from; a tattooed man who demanded to be addressed as Wolf, and who had already shaved her head and private parts, raped her, in that although she had not refused him, it was an act she suffered under extreme intimidation and duress. If she just acceded to all his demands, then she was positive that it would curry no favour, only postpone the inevitable. She wanted to survive the ordeal, but could not begin to think how she might achieve that goal. He was far too powerful for her to physically overcome, and she could see nothing to employ as a weapon. Even if by some miracle she could render him unconscious, or preferably dead, then what? She was chained to the fucking floor. And if her cries for help went unheeded, she would starve to death. There had to be a way. He would not have installed her in a purpose-built room, provided her with a toilet, or shaved her and fitted a stupid red wig on her head if he intended to do away with her in the immediate future. She had to somehow keep it together and wait for a chance to escape him, if one presented itself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“What else did he say?” Beth said after Matt had told Dave Brent to get back to him when he had a fix on the location that the phone call had been made from.
“That he was the killer, and had got McCall to pick up the money at the museum.”
“And what did he specifically want from you?”
“The money. He’s decided that I intercepted it, so it’s me who he has to collect from. He also wants his ring back. Says he’ll contact me again, and that if I don’t come through for him, then another woman will be murdered.”
“You must not deal with him, Matt. You shouldn’t speak to him again.”
“We have no leads. If I can set up another drop for the money, then I will. It might be the only chance we get to put him out of business.”
“Don’t you see that it’s happening again. Another sociopath is reaching out to you, just like the others did.”
“I did not go out of my way to have anything to do with him, Beth. I had no way of knowing that he would single me out.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to play by his rules and go up against him.”
“His rules don’t come into it. And I am up against him.”
“Let Tom make any arrangements with him. Don’t always let yourself be manipulated. I thought we agreed that you would never let this happen again. If you get too personal with him, then you know th
at he will end up gunning for you.”
Matt had a flashback. A rush of images filled his mind. The vivid remembrance of just how utterly destroyed he had felt when Beth had been in extreme danger was a sobering thought. He had at no time in his life experienced such mental torment. He knew that what they had together was more important than anything else. She was right. He owed it to them both to keep this sadist at arms’ length.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’ll do my best to avoid any further contact with him.”
Beth let out a sigh of relief and gave him a fragile smile. She did not think she could handle another sadistic killer impacting on their lives. The nature of the beasts made them totally unpredictable, and far more dangerous than sharks in a feeding frenzy. They could appear to be cold, calculated and highly organised, but under that facade was a brain on the point of meltdown.
Beth got out of bed. Went to Matt and held him in the grainy light that filtered through the cheap cotton curtains at the window.
“You feel good,” Matt said, gently pulling her to him.
“I feel cold,” she said. “I can feel goose bumps all over. I don’t know if it’s the temperature, or the thought of him out there planning his next warped move.”
“Let’s get back in bed and warm you up,” Matt suggested.
“You mean you aren’t going to get dressed and rush back to the Yard?”
“Correct. I’d rather be here with you. I’m finally learning to compartmentalise my life.”
Beth reached behind herself, took his hands from where they were cupping her bottom, and pulled him back to the bed.
It was seven a.m. when Ron knocked at the door and woke them. He had brought them tea on a tray and left it outside the door. Asked them if they wanted a cooked breakfast. They both declined.