by G. M. CLARK
‘A man can learn a lot of things in a mental hospital.’
Mack nods his head. ‘I don’t doubt it. But even if he is your number one lead, we don’t have a single shred of evidence. You can’t hold him for long.’
‘I know that, I’m hoping forensics turn something up today.’ I’m glaring, I know it.
‘We’re due for a meeting with Grimes, the profiler has finally arrived,’ says Mack. We walk along the corridors, each caught up in our own thoughts.
‘Nice stranglehold though, on Ernie. I was impressed.’ Mack tries to lighten the moment.
I laugh out loud. ‘You know, the things a guy has to do to impress his partner these days.’ I smile as Mack pushes me through the door and straight into Grimes. He turns and frowns, debating whether to go for me now or later. As he finally moves off, it’s obviously going to be later.
‘You’re three minutes late,’ he snipes.
The room is packed to standing room only again; it seems that with every new murder we get more coppers assigned to the case. At least that’s something. Grimes takes control, and in an instant the place is deathly quiet – everyone knows pretty much when to shut up when Grimes is around.
‘We now have five murders and not a single shred of evidence apart from the riddles sent to Downey; which the GCHQ assures me are being worked on as we speak.’
Murmurings of discontent pass around the room. Show me a copper, any copper, who can flippin’ abide the suits at the GCHQ. Grimes then signals to a striped suit with a pencil-thin moustache. ‘This is Bob Haskell, a profiler from HQ; he will give you his full report.’
Bob Haskell looks like a man who has little fun in his life; his suit is old and brown and pitifully out of fashion, the shirt collar worn and the tie dated to say the least. His hair is slicked down with a tub of Brylcreem and his shoes are polished to within an inch of their lives. I don’t take to him.
He stands up and positions himself in front of his flipchart, notes in one hand and a pointer in the other.
‘Your killer is white, male, aged forty to forty-five, and he’s probably had a few pitiful relationships. He will have an average IQ, perhaps a college record, but he’s a quiet, unobtrusive man. I doubt he is from a military background, more likely he has been close to someone in the police force or has fantasised about being a copper. He will drive a common car, probably a light, nondescript colour. He was also probably abused by his mother. Look for someone who has offered information in this case. You may find you have already interviewed him.’ He looks rather pleased with himself, but I think it’s a load of bullshit. Our guy is only going to go near a copper to kill him; and as for his description, well, kind of general isn’t it?
The room is filled with the mutterings of other coppers thinking exactly the same as me. Most of them mistrust any profiler and would rather go on hard facts, but this is now a respected form of policing. I still want to hear what Connie has to say about it.
Mack turns to me and mutters in a not-very-quiet voice, ‘I make more burglary arrests in a day, than this guy has correctly predicted in a year.’
I step forward. ‘So why Manchester and why me?’ I ask Haskell.
‘Perhaps he has a grudge with here and with you. Maybe this is his way of paying you back,’ he replies, not quite making eye contact.
‘Any connections between the five victims?’ asks Grimes.
‘Nuthin’ – not even the same ruddy star signs,’ says Mack.
Haskell seems unfazed, and he and Grimes wander off together. I decide I’ve had enough for one day. Near killing Ernie Taggs has just about finished my day off, and all I want is some peace and quiet, a good meal, and a large bottle of whisky – preferably all to myself.
I push open my flat door, and all that greets me is silence. Where the hell is she now? I thought I told her to play it safe; I might have guessed she’d ignore anything that I said, Connie is that type of woman. I flick on the coffee percolator and check the answer machine; no messages from her. I try dialling her mobile phone, but got no reply, she’s probably too busy gassing to Mel.
I run a hot bath, watching the steam wafting upwards, dip my toe in, and then sink right in; the water is nearly up to my chin. It feels good. I can see the scars from the bombing and some of the bruises are a little more vivid in colour, but nothing that Mother Nature won’t cure. I think about Lucy Watts, and what she must have gone through. Again, the flat hadn’t been broken into, so either she knew the killer or he simply let himself in. He’d obviously taken a great deal more pleasure torturing her; this is the first victim that we’re sure he’d kept alive, whilst hacking her to pieces. I pray to God that she passed out as soon as it began; anything else is just too obscene to comprehend. I know that the killer had reached a frenzy stage, and if it isn’t Ernie, then we’re in deep shit. The media are blazing every gory detail they can lay their hands on over the air, and repeating them every half hour. By now not just Manchester, but the whole of Britain, is held in the grip of fear, and I can’t honestly blame them.
After topping up the bath a few times with hot water, I heave myself out and throw on the nearest towel; I grab a cup of coffee and sit watching out the lounge window. People roam and mill about, the traffic is still heavy, but do they walk a little quicker now, I wonder? Do they look over their shoulders just checking who’s there? My mobile phone bleeps, no doubt a message from Connie. Where the hell is she anyway? Christ I’m starting to sound like the jealous husband. My hand trembles as I read it.
To Whom It May Concern: perhaps Lucy Watts.
I can cause you problems
But I can never solve them
I can give you false strength
And courage it’s true
But use me too often
You’ll be singing the blues.
What am I?
Your nemesis.
CHAPTER 18
Jesus Christ, why me? I snatch up the phone and punch in headquarters’ number, and soon Simon, ‘the ping ping’ as we affectionately call him, is on his way. My home is getting to be a regular place for the department to come to; is this also part of the plan?
I pace the floor waiting for him, and although he’s only ten minutes it feels like an hour. Once in he picks up the phone and plugs it into his palm system.
‘Give me five,’ he says.
Mobile phones work off different networks; each time a person uses his phone it connects with various networks, depending on their location – in other words it pings off different signal antennas. We can get hold of that information to trace exactly where the call was made from, and from which phone.
‘Got it,’ he says just as Connie walks through the door. ‘Last area of signal was the Arndale Centre; the number is 07700 9060812.’ My head swivels; I know that number.
Connie glances at him. ‘That’s my number!
‘Where’s your phone now?’ I ask.
‘It’s in my bag.’
‘Check it, quickly.’
She rummages through, eventually tipping the contents out of the Louis Vuitton bag onto the floor; lipsticks roll away, but there is no phone. I can actually see panic in her eyes for the first time.
‘When did you last have it?’ I try to keep my voice even.
‘I tried calling you from The Bella Italia but there was no reply, just the answer machine.’
‘What time, Connie?’ I try to keep the rising tide of alarm from my voice.
‘About two.’
‘Did you ever put your bag down?’
‘Yes, at lunch, perhaps it dropped out.’ She knows that didn’t happen. I know that didn’t happen.
‘Was your bag zipped shut all the time?’ I can feel my stomach knotting.
‘Well… no.’
‘So anyone could’ve lifted it at any time?’ says Simon.
‘Surely I would have felt something?’ She’s trying to convince herself.
‘All cities are full of pick pockets,’ I say.
&
nbsp; ‘You’re thinking he took it?’ The fear is written in her face.
I try to calm her. ‘Unlikely, you might have caught him more probable that he got someone else to do it for him.’ I can see the relief wash over her. It’s true, he wouldn’t have got that close to her, and he couldn’t have taken the risk. But what it does mean is that this arsehole now knows my girlfriend’s movements and my mobile phone number, as well as my home details. I’m worried, really worried.
Simon takes the phone back with him to headquarters with the riddle intact. I’ve scribbled it down onto the pad; we now have a list of five riddles and only one has been solved.
Connie gulps down a glass of whisky, first time I’ve ever seen her do that. She must be shaken up pretty bad. She takes one look at the riddle and has the answer, or should I say answers.
‘It could be a mask, alcohol, drugs or even clothes,’ she says. ‘It’s trying to cause you problems, but can also give you courage.’ Great, four solutions to one riddle. Still, it’s a start.
‘What about Dr Clements?’ I ask.
‘Oh, Marion’s been out of town, some lectures on criminal psychology. She should be back by now though.’
‘Could you call her tomorrow?’ I don’t want to push her, I know she’s still pretty shaken up, but we need all the help that we can get.
‘Sure.’
‘Oh, by the way, I brought you a copy from the profiler from HQ.’ I slip her the sheet. As she reads it I see the old anger flash over her face.
‘This is utter bullshit.’
‘You sound like an expert.’ I’m trying for cheeky; perhaps it comes across wrong.
‘I am.’ Snap tone.
‘So what’s wrong with it?’
‘Everything.’ She pulls out her briefcase and flicks it open. ‘Your killer will be white, male, thirties. Never married or held any long term relationships, IQ above average, no criminal record. Personality outwardly cocky and confident, vehicle colour – dark.’ She goes on, ‘Occupation: casual labourer, probably military dishonourable or medical discharge. His signature is manual strangulation, sometimes he does not face the victim; he has a deep seated fear of not being able to deal with either men or women, and this is why he kills immediately. His crime scene signature is the hyoid bone and body dismemberment. His childhood background will have been dysfunctional, could be from a single parent family or a home.’
‘That’s half the sodding population!’ I exclaim.
‘Pull this out again when you catch him.’ Her tone is polite, rigid, taught as wire.
‘Look I know you’ve worked hard on this, but I have to be seen to be taking Haskell’s profile.’
‘Why?’ She moves into the kitchen, and opens a bottle of wine.
‘Because he works for us.’
‘He’s still wrong.’ Clipped answers; I know I’m on dangerous ground.
I quickly scan Bob Haskell’s report and understand her bad mood, but is it any reason to take it out on me? She clatters the dishes into the sink then storms back through, her normally serene face tight and twisted with blazing fury.
‘Your profiler is wrong… I’m telling you! He’s completely off-base. How long has he been doing this?’
Jesus, I’ve hardly even met the guy.
‘Connie, I just don’t need this right now, I’m fried.’
I swear I see her nostrils flare.
‘I don’t give a shit… he’s still wrong.’
I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough of everything, and I can almost feel the red mist fall over me. I slam my glass on the counter, cracking it.
‘Fuck it… okay! You’re right; he’s wrong, happy now? But guess what, here’s the deal. He works for the government department, and you don’t. I have to work with him. Want know why? ’Cos Grimes will nail my arse to the nearest desk if I don’t. Are you getting the picture now?’ I can feel the rage bubbling up inside of me, hear the malice in my voice, but right at this very minute, I couldn’t care less.
She stands stalk upright, as if I’ve just slapped her in the face. The eyes are cold, hard and distant, and I know I’ve been the one to cause it. Guilt starts to kick in.
‘Fine,’ she snaps like an icy wind. ‘But I’m still right.’ She isn’t for backing down, she never was.
‘Look, I don’t want to argue about this, he’s just doing his job, same as I’m doing mine.’ I try to keep my tone level.
Still she stands her ground, hands on hips, eyes not blinking; I know I’m in big trouble.
‘So what you’re saying is that my profile is wrong?’ The voice is polite, nothing more, nothing less.
‘I never said that.’ Keep calm, I think. Never ever tell an angry woman she’s wrong.
‘You never said otherwise either,’ she points out.
‘Look babe, this guy works in our country, he knows our types.’ I try moving towards her; she’s having none of it.
‘You don’t have a clue.’ The body language is mute.
‘I don’t have time for this, I’ve got a funeral tomorrow lunchtime and I’m knackered.’
I turn and walk into the bedroom, and hear her snap, ‘Fine.’
She must have waited until I was fast asleep before she joined me because I never felt her slide into the bed. In the morning she’s firmly over to her own side. Even asleep she looks angry. I decide to leave it alone; I have plenty of other things on my mind.
I’m cooking an early breakfast when she comes through fully dressed, the face still pinched in anger. How the hell can a woman stay mad for so long?
‘Do you want some breakfast?’ I try my old devil smile.
‘Don’t go out of the way on my account.’ Sounds like I’m still in the dog house. I decide to go on the offensive. Striding up to her I grab her by both shoulders, tipping her slightly back. My mouth comes down hard on her soft sweet lips, I pull her in closer feeling her body mould into mine, her breasts, pert and firm, press against my chest, my loins rubbing against her, one hand now securely on her tight ass, and what a cute ass it is. My hands are roaming free over her skin; it’s like heaven sent electricity, we simply spark off each other like lightning hitting a tree. In the pit of my stomach I can feel the rush of adrenaline kick through me as I want to take her now, right on this floor, right this very minute. Just as I’m getting carried away with myself she pushes back, her face flushed, her breath coming in short unsteady gulps.
‘Were you lonely last night?’ she asks, that smile lighting up her face.
‘That too,’ I reply, trying to readjust my jeans.
‘What?’ She looks bemused.
‘I don’t want to fight.’ I give in, I know, but I mean it.
‘Me neither.’ She gently strokes my face.
‘Am I still in trouble?’
‘You’re forgiven – this time.’
She leads me into the bedroom, removing my clothes until I am naked and heavy with anticipation. I reach over and carefully remove her soft woollen top, unzip the skirt until it falls to the floor. With one hand I flip open her bra, my lips kiss the soft pink flesh, which cries out to be touched. Lifting her gently I place her on the bed, working my way down her soft, sensuous skin. I kiss each line, each soft fold, pulling off her panties. I move further down, licking the insides of her thighs, feeling her straining in anticipation. She pulls me up and our mouths unite as one, exploring, devouring each other. Finally I cannot wait a moment longer, and plunge into her. She claws at my back, the two of us moving in perfect rhythm, taking each other to parallel heights where finally ecstasy is found in perfect and utterly sublime synchronicity. I feel her shudder through me, as my own lust is released; dear God I love her. I love everything about her; the way she feels, the way she looks, the very soul of her that has facets that I have never met in any other woman. And so with the promise of so much more to come, I enfold her in my arms and let her rest awhile, while I watch her gently drift into sleep, a satisfied smile curling her bruised, full lips.
; The morning sun streams in through the open window, the breeze gently lapping at the curtains. She stirs in my arms. Is there ever a place so perfect, so innocent, so full of love, I wonder?
Kissing me, she steps naked into her dressing gown and makes for the kitchen.
‘I’m so hungry,’ she says, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. I’m hungry too, but not for food, I think. God, she has a body made for loving, I really hope that I’m the one who gets to do that forever. Perhaps I should tell her this instead of just keeping the thoughts bottled up. One day, I promise myself, one day soon.
The shower has wakened me, and the promise of breakfast cooking again in the kitchen has me stumbling through, wearing only a towel… after all, I didn’t get to eat the last lot.
‘That smells good.’ The bacon’s sizzling under the grill, the coffee bubbling in the pot.
‘So do you.’ She runs a hand through my damp hair.
I lean over and kiss the soft part of her neck.
‘So, I think you should just stick with my profile.’ Reality check, I think, here we go again.
‘I already told you I can’t.’ I turn my back to her, a fatal mistake.
‘You just don’t get it do you?’ It’s like I’ve ignited a fuse within her.
‘Now what?’
‘Each serial killer has a specific stressor that sets him off. His signature will remain the same no matter what! His variations of torture or mutilation may vary the more he goes on, the more practiced he becomes, but always he has a pattern.’
How did we go from a loving couple to two warring people in the space of mere seconds, I wonder? I’m bone tired and weary, and sick of hearing everyone else’s opinion on a nutcase; temper flares within me again.
‘Jesus Christ, Connie, I’m trying to eat.’
‘Eat! Do you have any bloody idea of what I have to go through to get a profile?’
‘Enlighten me, why don’t you?’ I snap, while ramming a piece of bacon into my mouth. I think that’s the last straw for her.