by Michael Kerr
“They’re at it early,” Len said, nodding to where the rear end of a Rover was visible about fifty yards from them.
Bill grinned and poured them both coffees from his pump flask. “Maybe we should sneak up and ruin their morning. Give them the, ‘hello, hello, hello, what are you two up to’ spiel. Take their names and addresses and let them know that they may be prosecuted for lewd behaviour in a public place.”
“You’re an evil bastard, Bill,” Len said. “C’mon, let’s do it now, before they finish up and scarper.”
They put the plastic cups in the pre-formed holders below the dash computer, and Bill started up and drove down to within a couple of yards of the other vehicle before switching on the siren for a couple of seconds.
There was no response.
“Go rap on the window, Lenny,” Bill said. He had a sudden intuitive feeling that they were going to find more than they had bargained for. At least he could see that there was no hosepipe leading from the exhaust to one of the windows.
Len opened the car door and frowned. Beckoned Bill to join him.
Bill could see a pair of black, lacy panties draped over the gear lever, and a red ankle strap shoe in the foot well. He looked for the other one. Found it under the driver’s seat. The front passenger seat was back all the way, and fully reclined. He was sure that a couple had been fooling around. So where were they?
“Check the immediate area,” Bill said to Len as he pulled the boot release and went back to see what was inside it, to find nothing more sinister than a few swatches of carpet samples and a metal petrol can.
“Shit, Bill, get an ambulance!” Len shouted from among the trees and undergrowth at the side of the lane.
Jamie could not speak. He had regained consciousness, but could not get his body to obey the commands from his brain. He felt dizzy and very frightened at being unable to move. It took a lot of effort to breathe. The pain in his throat was less of a worry than the fact that he could only take shallow sips of air through what he knew was a constricted windpipe. All he could do was lie on his back and try to stay alive until he was found. They had been attacked. Someone had dragged him out of the car and stomped on his face, head and neck, and then dragged him to where he was now. CHERYL! She had most likely been raped and...was she dead? Please, no. The thought of her body slumped in the car or maybe somewhere close by caused tears to run from his eyes and down the sides of his face, into his ears. There was an alternative. Her fucking husband might have sussed out that they were having an affair, followed them and attacked him. With any luck, Cheryl had got away with a few slaps, before being taken home. But that did not help him. He might die if no one found him. Shit! Something was crawling up his left leg. His trousers were down to his ankles. Insects – or whatever else lived in this small strip of woodland – would feed off him. This was a nightmare. It was cold, wet and very dark. He kept passing out. Each time he came to, he tried unsuccessfully to move. He was numb now. Couldn’t feel anything. Just worked at breathing. Alana would be going totally apeshit. He was her golden goose. She would have eventually called the police and reported him missing; given them the make and registration of his car. May have phoned round hospitals first.
It was daylight when he surfaced again. A siren startled him awake. He heard voices nearby. Tried to call out, but only managed a harsh wheeze.
Len thought that the man was dead. The eyes were staring, unblinking, and the face was masked in blood. His shirt was up to his chest, and his trousers and underpants were down to his ankles. Dropping to one knee, Len felt for a pulse, just to confirm that he was dealing with a stiff. He was surprised to feel the beat of life under his fingertips. Shouted for Bill to summon help.
“You’ll be all right,” Len said, not even knowing if the man could hear him, and positive that he would be far from all right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Matt phoned Beth at Northfield. Told her that they had another victim. That it wasn’t Julie Spencer.
“So who is it?” Beth said. “Do you know yet?”
“Yeah. He left her handbag at the scene. She was a married mother with a son. The MO was the same, with the addition of a red wig. She was a blonde. Why would he do that?”
“Rush job, Matt. A spur of the moment and impulsive action. He put the wig on her so that she would appear to conform to his basic requirements. I think it safe to assume that he is now escalating. The victims no longer have to be real redheads, or prostitutes. He can fantasise that they are. Where was she found?”
“In a bunker on a golf course at Ashford. He used her mobile to phone it in. But it was a green keeper who found her.”
“Do you know where he lifted her?”
“Not yet. Her husband has been informed. He’d reported her missing at three in the morning. Maybe someone saw her being lifted. It’s a long shot, but someone might have seen her being bundled into a vehicle.”
“You’re right, Matt. It is a long shot.”
“You know the score. We work with what we’ve got.”
“What about the tattoo angle?”
“Ongoing.”
“Will I see you this evening?”
“Of course. My place or yours?”
“Mine, for a change. And call me if you can’t make it.”
“Will do. Love you.”
“Ditto.”
DC Caroline – Carrie – Tucker volunteered as bait. She was wired, and two officers were monitoring her movements and conversation.
It was almost lunch time when Carrie entered Ink Magic by Lucas in Blackheath. She smiled at the young man who looked up from where he was finishing off an outline on a client’s neck.
“I’ll be with you in a minute, love,” Lucas said. “Take a seat.”
Carrie nodded and settled in one of the three chairs that were lined-up against the wall behind a coffee table that was littered with magazines.
This was the second day she had been calling on tattoo parlours south of the river. The plan was simple. A police artist had worked-up an original Celtic design that bore striking similarities to one of the illustrations on the remains of the body found at Grove Park. Carrie was hoping that a tattooist would show his recognition of the sketch. She was a trained interrogator, expert at interpreting body language and facial expressions that could display guilt, if you knew what to look for.
Using a single-tipped needle, Lucas finished outlining a snake image on the punter’s neck. It was basically a piece of intricate knotwork with two loose ends to add the head and tail. Once finished, he cleaned the area with antiseptic soap and water, patted it dry with a tissue and taped a sterile lint pad in place. The guy only had limited time to spare. He paid in cash and left, telling Lucas that he would phone to make an appointment to have the shading and colouring done at a later date.
“What can I do for you?” Lucas said to the young woman.
“I have a drawing that my boyfriend did for me,” Carrie said. “I wondered if you would be able to tattoo it on my shoulder.”
She was a looker. Nice lithe body and a pretty face. And her short hair was a deep auburn. He would be only too happy to tattoo anything that she desired on any part of her anatomy.
“Show me,” he said.
Carrie opened the manila document wallet she was holding, removed the drawing and handed it to him.
Lucas nodded approvingly. “It’s very good,” he said. “Is your boyfriend a professional artist?”
“No, but it’s his hobby. I saw something like this in a book on Celtic art, and asked him if he could draw a similar one for me, with just enough changes to make it totally unique.”
Lying bitch! The chances of her having seen anything that bore such an uncanny resemblance to one of his own designs was slim to none. He was more than a little alarmed, but did not show it. The stylised cormorant was as near as damnit the same as one he had tattooed onto the back of the young whore who he had disposed of by burning.
“Why this species
of bird?” Lucas said.
“I just like them.”
“So did the Celts. Celtic artists took to birds more than any other zoomorph. And in particular to sea birds, due to their having links with the elements of water, earth and air. They were regarded as special. Scribes drew inspiration from the birds that frequented the shores and sea-cliffs where they lived.”
“So it’s a good choice?” Carrie said.
“I think so. In Celtic mythology each species holds a different significance. Crows and ravens symbolise death; swans, nobility and purity. Eagles, lords of the air. And owls are outcasts of the bird world.”
“You seem to know a lot about the Celts,” Carrie said, conversationally.
I also know that you are much more than you would have me believe. She was a fucking cop. This was a clumsy ruse to try and home in on the killer...him.
“Not really,” Lucas said. “But Celtic stuff has become very popular over the last couple of decades. I read the books and pick up some knowledge from clients who are heavily into it.”
Carrie could not read the man. He gave off no vibes that she could pick up on. That was unsettling. Saint or sinner, he kept his emotions securely under wraps. Her instinct told her that he was a cool and calculating individual. One to not casually dismiss as a possible suspect. The expression on his face was impassive. And yet there was a look in his eyes that held the propensity for violence. He was more than he purported to be, of that she was sure. That he had not shown any surprise at seeing the sketch was not proof of innocence. Some criminals could take a polygraph test and pass with flying colours. They had the ability to control the telltale fluctuations of heart and pulse rate that would signify their lying, and thereby outsmart the technology. Stone killers could be extremely resourceful, and well able to deal with pressure.
“Can I make an appointment?” Carrie asked the shaven headed young man, who was all of a sudden in her personal space, up close and looking into her eyes with an intensity that unnerved her. She was suddenly very pleased to be wearing a wire taped between her breasts, and to know that armed assistance was only seconds away.
“No time like the present,” Lucas said, putting his face so close to hers that he could smell the peachy scent of the soap she had washed with that morning. “Just slip your top off and make yourself comfortable in the chair.”
“Thanks, but no,” Carrie countered. “I don’t have the time, now.”
Lucas backed-up and opened the appointment book on the shelf next to the autoclave.
“Okay, love. When is good for you?”
Never. “How about Thursday afternoon?”
“Two o’clock, okay?”
“Yes.”
A boyish grin. “So give me your name, sweetheart, I’m a tattoo artist, not a clairvoyant.”
“Uh, Carol...Carol Price.”
“Then I’ll look forward to Thursday, Carol.”
Carrie took the drawing back from him and walked towards the door.
“Wait,” Lucas said. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”
Carrie turned back and frowned. “I don’t think so.”
Lucas smiled. “Most people ask how much it will cost. Why haven’t you?”
“I meant to, and forgot to ask,” she said. It sounded lame.
“I can do it for a hundred quid. Okay?”
“That’ll be fine,” Carrie said, and quickly exited the studio. She had not caught any signals. There had been no apparent recognition of the illustration, and she had not sensed that he was tense or being guarded. In fact he had been relaxed and open in his dialogue. Even given her the impression that with the slightest incentive he would have come onto her, hard. Had it not been for the menace that emanated from the man’s eyes, then she would have hit the street with him already mentally crossed off her list. Instead, she considered him to be potentially dangerous, though maybe not a viable suspect for the case they were working.
Lucas ran up the stairs and into the small front bedroom that faced the street. He watched the woman stroll along the pavement and then stop beside a Transit van. She was not alone. This was an undercover team attempting to home in on him. Pathetic. Had she thought that he might gasp, swallow hard, and give himself away at the sight of the drawing that was without any shadow of doubt adapted from his work? But he had made a mistake, and that was inexcusable. He should have ensured that the body had burned to an extent that would have left no identifiable evidence of the original artwork. What would the attractive cop report to her superiors? Was he at risk? No. He had reacted to the drawing with interest, but without any sign of recognition. She would make her next call and go through the same little game. They had no possible reason to concentrate on him. Trouble was, they were on the money, rightly believing that the killer was a tattooist. It put him in a grouping that was under the microscope. It might be prudent to get rid of Julie and all sign of the loft ever having been occupied. Why risk being caught with his hand in the cookie jar?
An instant Plan B popped into his mind. He plucked a baseball cap from the dressing table and headed for the stairs.
They were only just pulling away from the kerb when he nosed the van out onto the street. The one thing that they would not expect, was to be followed. The complacent bastards thought that their anonymity was guaranteed.
Lucas pressed the catch and rummaged in the glove compartment. Found a pair of shades and put them on. The events over the next three hours confirmed that he had no need to panic. The cops were canvassing all tattoo parlours. He was not in any danger. They were following a line of enquiry that by itself could not lead to him.
It was five o’ clock when the female cop who was fronting the operation got out of the Transit at a busy junction in Stockwell, waved to her colleagues and walked towards the tube.
Shit! He wanted to stay with her. It was a spur of the moment decision. But he couldn’t just leap out of the van and leave it parked illegally.
There was an NCP almost opposite. He pulled in, waited for the barrier arm to rise, drove through and stopped. The young Asian guy in the booth frowned as he approached him.
“I have an emergency,” Lucas said to the attendant. “I’d appreciate you parking my van for me.” He fished a twenty and a ten pound note from his pocket and stuffed it into the man’s hand. “Okay?”
He ran across to the station. Chances were that he would not find her. But logic told him that she would be catching a southbound train. Had she being going back across the river, then why would she have got dropped off. It was busy, but he saw her queuing for a ticket, so pushed in the line four back from her, raised his sunglasses and gave the woman behind him an intimidating glare as she made to complain. He snarled, “I’m in a real hurry, love.”
She pursed her lips and looked away, unable to meet his stare.
It was too noisy for him to hear the cop state her destination. When it was his turn, he bought one to the end of the line and headed for the platform.
Carrie had a splitting headache. She had planned to make the most of a rare evening off duty. Maybe call her best friend, Viv, and go for a drink and a meal. All she wanted to do now was soak in the bath and chill out. It had been a long day. One of the other team members, Kris, had been coming onto her all day. He wasn’t really her type, and a mild body odour was the ultimate deterrent. The back of the Transit had smelled like boiled cabbage. She had been tempted to say: ‘if you didn’t smell like a waste bin, then I might consider it’, but had bit her tongue.
She began to doze. There was no fear of missing her stop. She was going all the way to the end of the line at Morden.
He wanted her. From where he was standing at the far end of the crowded carriage, he could see her head dropping forward, then snapping up again as she startled herself awake.
What was to stop him following her to wherever she lived, to rape and kill her, after he had introduced himself properly and found out all she knew about the case? There would be no reason to link her
death to the case she was working. He would not burn or strangle her.
The only problem would be if she was married or had kids. He did not want to take any undue risks. Hubby might be a rugby player or karate nut. And she was not necessarily a pushover. She was an undercover cop. Could even be armed.
She got off and left the station. No one was waiting to give her a lift. She began walking along Martin Way, and turned right into a quiet avenue. Halfway down she stopped, opened a gate and fished in her handbag. He stayed a long way back and loitered behind a 4x4 until she had let herself inside the maisonette. Good sign. If anyone had been in, then why bother with a key? He would wait. Give it an hour or so, and then make his move.
Carrie picked her mail off the doormat, went through to the kitchen and switched both the kettle and the radio on. Sorted through the envelopes. Junk, including the letter that she knew was from Frank. She recognised his handwriting. He wouldn’t let go. They were now divorced, and yet he still wrote to her at least once a month to ask her to give it another chance. She ripped the whole caboodle up and binned it. Didn’t even read Frank’s letters anymore. The man was a bad memory that she wanted to forget. He had cheated on her with any bird that would drop her panties. And his drinking had bordered on alcoholism. The love she had wasted on him had long since dried up and blown away. “Wanker!” she said aloud, then smiled and headed up to the bathroom. She had fond memories of packing his belongings and leaving them on the garden path. He had hammered on the door and demanded, then pleaded with her to let him in. She had told him to piss off. Warned him that if he was still in the neighbourhood in ten minutes, she would have him picked up and thrown in a cell for the night. Sometimes being a cop had its perks.
An hour later, Carrie sat down to a microwave Weightwatcher’s meal. She drank a glass of sparkling white wine with it, then washed up, refilled her glass and took it through to the lounge. She had a stack of ironing that needed doing, but couldn’t be arsed. She just flopped in an armchair and closed her eyes.