by Rob Ashman
‘That’s what I think, because if you are going to go to that much trouble, you would want to see the effects. What about the burning?’
‘I don’t know, same thing, I guess. The killer would be facing the victim.’
‘What next?’
‘I stick him in the neck, and he bleeds out.’
‘The victim is stabbed on his right-hand side which means…’ Kray left the sentence unfinished for Tavener to fill in the gap.
‘The victim is inverted, so that would make the killer right-handed.’
‘That’s what I thought originally.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Think this through. I sever the carotid artery and jugular vein of a fifteen-stone man who is hanging upside down. If I don’t move fast I’m going to be ankle deep in blood in no time. But there are no shoe prints, other than the ones left by the cleaner.’
‘He must have legged it.’
‘But how do you explain the blood smear on the banister half way up the stairs?’
Tavener shook his head. ‘The killer must have grabbed it. Maybe when he was on his way out?’
Kray moved around the stairs and reached her left hand into the air; it fell a good two and a half feet short of the blood. The cogs whirred in Tavener’s head.
‘But you are hardly normal–’
‘Shut it.’ Kray said not wanting to hear about her woeful lack of height. ‘Even by the standards of a six-foot-three-inch Scotsman, you would have to raise your hand high in the air to make that mark. And who the hell runs away from a body, gushing thirteen pints of blood onto the floor, with their hands in the air?’
‘Fucking most people, I would have thought,’ he said. Kray fixed him with her best glare. ‘I get what you’re saying, Roz.’
Tavener looked at Kray with a “come on, then – tell me” look on his face.
‘I think after the killer tortured the victim, he or she made their way up the stairs.’ Kray shuffled past Tavener and sat on the fifth step. ‘The killer was behind the victim when he slashed his neck. Which would make our killer left-handed.’
‘He could have spun the vic around, slashed his neck and spun him back.’
‘But the blood spatter does not support that. The killer stuck him with the knife and the blood hit woodwork.’ Kray pointed to the dark red stain on the balustrade. ‘Once the guy is dead, the killer climbs up onto the banister and drops down to the other side avoiding the pool of blood. But he fails to notice he has blood on his hand.’
‘Why would the killer do that? It makes no sense.’
‘You’re right, it doesn’t. It only makes sense if the killer was standing here for a reason.’
‘Maybe he needed to go upstairs.’ Tavener’s phone beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out and shouted into the handset. ‘Yes, wait…wait until I get outside.’ He cupped the phone in his hands, ‘I need to take this, Roz,’ and skipped along the floor plates disappearing into the hallway.
The place fell silent. The house was still.
Kray closed her eyes.
The scar running diagonally across her body began to itch again. She grasped onto the handrail, and she could see the inverted body, hanging in front of her, large areas of skin peeling away from the flesh.
She reached out with her free hand to touch the figure suspended from the landing above.
The killer climbed the stairs to do something with the body.
The puckered red line that started to the left of her navel, traversed her stomach and bisected her right breast burned beneath her clothing. Every pinprick where the surgeon’s needle sewed her skin back together was red hot.
You did something to the body – what did you do?
Kray’s hand felt cold as it passed through the space where the victim’s legs had been.
What did you do?
Kray could see the killer stood on the stairs. He had something in his hand.
What the hell is it?
‘Sorry about that, Roz.’ Tavener returned, breaking the moment. ‘That was the guys back at the station. They have set up an incident room and are ready for the first briefing.’
Kray’s knuckles were white beneath the blue latex glove. She steadied herself, gripping the banister.
‘Roz, are you okay? The guys at the station are waiting.’
Kray opened her eyes and snapped back to reality. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’
Tavener beetled off to start the car.
She closed her eyes once more – but it was gone.
Kray headed down the hallway to the waiting car. With every step she took, she uttered the word, ‘Fuck.’
5
It’s Tuesday. I quite like Tuesdays.
I drive through the gates and pull into my usual spot next to the entrance. It’s grey and cold outside, and the clock on the dashboard says ten-forty am. I like to arrive early. The wind cuts through my shirt and chills my skin as I step from the car. I’m working a split shift today, which is fine. Some of the guys hate working them because it screws your day up. But I don’t mind.
I push through the side door into the clinically white corridor and head towards the changing room. The place resonates with the sound of cheap locker doors opening and closing, the usual dawn chorus that greets you at the start of shift.
I nod my good mornings while holding my wallet against the clocking on machine, the sensor recognises me and emits a beep. I strip off my jeans and shoes, pick my prized possession wrapped in tissue from my pocket and drop it into the container. I should feel elated but I have a headache, dulling my senses. The white work trousers and wellington boots feel warm as I pull them on. I slip my head through the neck of a red plastic apron and tie it tightly about my waist. The gloves are still where I left them, folded in the front pocket.
The rest of my personal belongings are placed into the locker and I close the door with a metallic clunk. I make my way down a second brightly-lit corridor, looking forward to the day.
I shove open a heavy white door and splosh my way through the sanitizing foot bath into the main hall. The cacophony of noise assaults my ears while the stink of meat and steam hits me in the back of the throat. The squeal of a band-saw tears through the air every thirty seconds like a metronome. I wander down the cordoned off walkway to High Care, a bizarre name for such a place.
I pass through two more sets of doors and arrive at the rear of the building. I can hear a delivery as it backs up to the unloading bay. The heavy doors of the wagon bang open against their hinges.
I reach my workplace and enter a small room. It is eight feet square with stainless steel walls and a grey resin floor that slopes away to a drain in the corner. I twist the isolator switch a quarter turn clockwise and the red LED lamp bursts into life on the control panel. I run through the safety checks.
I can hear my first customers being driven from the lorry and corralled into pens. They know something is up. They can sense it’s not going to be a good day.
The sound is getting louder and I open up the door at the back of the room to see ten of them advancing towards me. Hustling and bustling their way down the increasingly narrow walkway. A big one is leading the charge. There is a whoosh of compressed air and a metal gate closes behind them.
I allow them to settle, then usher the big one into my room and close the door. She spins around, expecting to see the others following in hot pursuit, rotating on the spot when she realises she is on her own.
I reach up and remove the tongs from the hooks on the wall. They resemble a massive barbeque tool with a heavy metal cable running from one of the handles. She is looking up at me, her eyes flash with confusion. I lean forward, tapping her on the shoulder, and she swivels around in the confined space facing away from me.
I clamp the tongs either side of her head, just behind her ears, push the button and hold on tight. She arches her back and goes rigid, with her front legs thrust out in front while her back legs collapse. I squeeze the electrodes into
her flesh for three seconds. The electrical surge forces her brain into an epileptic seizure; 200 volts and 1.25 amps coursing through her grey matter does the job nicely. Sometimes, when their skin is dry, puffs of smoke and steam rise into the air as the metal contacts burn into them.
I release her from the tongs and she keels over against the wall. She is now in the tonic state, if I remember my training correctly. I replace the tongs and pull at her back legs to manoeuvre her into position, slipping the chain around her ankle and pressing the button.
The conveyor hoists her up and her free back leg kicks in circles. She is now in the clonic stage, and the clock is ticking – we only have a minute. She disappears through a shrouded gap in the wall.
I open the door to find the next one looking up at me. Her face says, ‘Is my friend in there?’ I step to one side and she trots into the room. I close the door and lift the tongs from the hook. She turns away from me.
I must admit, I quite like Tuesdays.
6
The briefing went as planned. The room was filled with a mixture of uniform and CID. Quade had made good on her promise of providing enough resource to do the job. Kray stood at the front and systematically stepped through what they knew and discussed the best lines of inquiry.
Tavener dished out the tasking for the day and the room emptied faster than you could say, ‘ACC Quade is on her way’. Background checks, social media, phone records, known associates, door to door, forensics, CCTV were all on the agenda. Kray sat in her office, trying to make a dent in her burgeoning admin.
The figure of ACC Quade loomed in the doorway. ‘I missed the briefing,’ she chorused not waiting to be invited in.
That’s because you weren’t invited.
‘I know, ma’am. It would have been good for you to have the opportunity to talk to the guys. Maybe next time.’
‘Yeah, next time. Are you happy with your team?’
‘Yes, we have a lot of ground to cover, so we need all the help we can get.’
‘As I said, Roz, if you need anything, my door is always open.’
I preferred it when you hated my guts.
‘Thank you, ma’am, that’s good to know.’
Quade closed the door and pulled up a chair. Kray sighed and her head dropped.
‘I wanted you to know, Roz, I am not one to bear grudges,’ she said, parking herself onto what now looked like a kiddie’s chair. ‘I mean, with what went on between us is in the past.’
That’s very good of you to say so, but you weren’t the one who was fucking suspended.
‘Neither am I, ma’am. It was a stressful time for all of us.’
‘It was, and of course, we must not lose sight of the fact that DCI Jackson was the SIO. So, unfortunately, the buck stops with him.’
You mean, you threw Jackson under the bus to save your own skin.
‘We were all under considerable stress at the time, including DCI Jackson.’
‘This case is the–’
Kray’s phone buzzed on the desk.
‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ Kray picked it up quickly. ‘Okay … yes … I’d better take a look … that’s good work, I can be there in fifteen.’ She put the phone in her pocket and stood up. ‘That was Tavener. He wants me to take a look at something he’s found at the house.’
‘Never a dull moment.’ Quade rocked herself forward and stood up. ‘I do like our little chats.’ She opened the door and waddled out.
I’d rather have my head fried in a wok.
‘I will keep you updated, ma’am.’
Kray found Tavener sitting in the lounge of house number sixteen, flipping through his notebook.
‘Hey, I thought you were knee deep in paperwork,’ he said, looking up.
‘I was until I got a visit from a certain ACC.’
‘Good to see you and Mrs Blobby getting on so well.’ Kray flashed him a look and Tavener held up his hands in a sign of surrender. ‘I know, I should be more respectful.’
‘You should be on a verbal warning.’ Kray paused, enjoying the Blobby comparison. ‘She was holding me hostage in my office when I got a call from my mum. I pretended it was you and ran for it. So, if she asks…’
‘I won’t drop you in it. How is your mum, by the way?’
‘Bloody confused now.’ Kray took a seat opposite him. ‘Anything of interest?’
‘It’s too early. Everyone is out and about and I’ve just finished speaking to the neighbours. Turns out John Graham was a likeable chap. He was widowed about six months ago when his wife died suddenly of cancer shortly after they moved here. He sold his metal bashing business and went into semi-retirement. The neighbours didn’t think he had a full-time job, more that he dipped in and out of work when he felt like it. No one had seen anything out of the ordinary and no significant other since his wife died.’
‘Well, somebody didn’t like him.’
Tavener bent forward and started undoing his shoe. ‘Excuse me, Roz.’ He fumbled with the laces and yanked the shoe off his foot.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘I need new shoes. The in-sole keeps creasing in this one. It’s doing my head in.’
Kray watched as Tavener forced his hand into his size elevens to straighten out the sole. She looked down to see he was wearing grey socks. She stared at his feet.
Her mind raced through the images of the man hanging upside-down only ten feet away from where they were sitting. She could see his burned flesh, his bloody eyes, his skin peeling from his body, she could see his socks…
‘Fuck!’ Kray jumped up from the sofa.
Twenty minutes later, Kray was heaving her shoulder against the heavy door to the mortuary. Tavener lent a helping hand over her shoulder and followed her in. She showed her warrant card to the woman sat at a corner desk wearing a white lab coat and trousers.
‘I’m Acting DCI Kray, this is DC Tavener. You have the body of John Graham. He was brought in earlier today. I want to see him, please.’
The young woman clicked away with her mouse and consulted a spreadsheet. As Kray waited, the smell of formaldehyde mixed with a hint of rotting chicken filled her senses. She remembered it vividly from the last time. The memory made her shudder.
‘Yes,’ said the woman in the white scrubs, ‘would you like to follow me?’ She ushered them down a corridor. ‘He has not been prepped yet, so he is in the same condition as when he arrived.’
‘That’s fine, thank you.’
She swiped a key card against a black box on the wall and the door clicked open. They put on protective gear and filed into a room. The place was cold and resonated with the dull hum of industrial refrigeration units. Fluorescent lights bathed the walls and floor in crystal white light. She tugged at one of the handles. The compartment slid open about a foot.
‘This is him, I’ll leave you to it.’
She left Kray and Tavener staring at the partly-exposed body.
Tavener moved forward and grabbed the handle. The large refrigerated drawer containing John Graham slid towards them. His face was porcelain white while his body was steaked with flashes of red where the skin had peeled away. There was torn flesh around his wrists where the cable ties had gouged deep into his flesh.
Kray donned a pair of blue gloves from her pocket.
‘Will you tell me what this is all about?’ Tavener was fed up of asking the same damned question.
‘When I saw the victim’s body at the house he was suspended by a leather strap buckled around each of his ankles.’
‘Okay.’
‘The strap went over one of the socks but not the other.’
‘I don’t get it.’
She reached down and lifted the victim’s left foot clear of the bed, gripping the toe of the sock between her thumb and first finger of the other hand. She pulled, and the sock slid off his foot.
‘What? What is it, Roz?’ Tavener was losing patience with his boss. Kray shook her head.
She lifted the other
foot and removed the sock in the same way.
Both of them stared at the foot.
‘What the hell is that?’ asked Tavener.
‘I know what it is. The right question to ask is “why?”’
7
I’m back down to earth with a bump. Despite my headache, the rush of endorphins I experienced this morning had me on a permanent high for most of the day. But as my shift came to an end, I could feel myself plummeting. By the time I got to the car to drive home, it had become a full-on crash.
I couldn’t face going back to my three-room bedsit over the top of the Chinese takeaway to watch TV and eat food from a plastic tray. Instead, I drove into town and pulled into the Rowdy Rascal carpark. I could hear the music from the bar as I cracked open the door. The place was jumping with holiday makers and day trippers enjoying a cheap meal before hitting the town. I ordered a burger and coke – an absolute steal at £5.99, with a free refill on the coke. I no longer drink alcohol because it plays havoc with my medication.
I squeeze my way through the gaps between the chairs to find a corner table facing the TV. Sky Sports is showing a football game involving two foreign teams I have never heard of. I had hoped the noise would fill my head and stop my thoughts from racing. It was a great plan, but it doesn’t work. I stare down into the bubbles bursting across the surface of my drink. Dark thoughts saturate my mind.
I never wanted any of this shit. I simply wanted to go to work, earn money and take care of my wife and kids – with the occasional holiday abroad, somewhere hot. That’s all I ever wished for in life. But the bastards wouldn’t let me do that. They tore down the building blocks of my life, one at a time, until I was left with nothing. Nothing to live in, nothing to live on and nothing to live for.
The fabric of my very being dissolved into mush over the space of eighteen months, and it was like watching it happen in slow motion to someone else. Piece by piece, my world fell apart, and no one cared. Not even the kids. My wife saw to that.
My name is Kevin for Christ sake, Kevin Palmer. When they talk about me in years to come, I’m sure they will say, ‘Do you remember Kevin Palmer and what he did?’ … ‘Kevin? You sure his name was Kevin?’ will be the response. Nobody has ever been remembered in history with the name Kevin.