by G. M. CLARK
I’m out in the hall when he starts screaming my name; I hesitate, wondering whether to just walk out, or go and face the music.
He yanks open his office door and stands half in, half out.
‘Downey, get your arse in here now!’
Mack appeared in the hall at the same moment.
‘You too, Mack.’ The office door slams, and I know I’ve perhaps pushed my luck a little with the Agency – but hell, who really gives a damn?
‘Come on,’ says Mack. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
Grimes sits behind his desk, his face drawn, haggard; the pressure is taking its toll. I know exactly how he feels, but have little sympathy for him. Perhaps if he was a remarkable leader, a good motivator, or a scrupulous officer I’d have more compassion, but actually he’s none of those things. He’s a kiss arse copper who had a moderately successful career in the murder investigation team, but knew all the right people at the right time. A brown-noser.
‘Sit down,’ he snaps.
I sit waiting for the barrage to begin; it doesn’t take long.
‘What the hell were you playing at in there?’
‘I don’t like being toyed with,’ I reply.
‘Listen, we don’t have a choice in this, the Agency are here whether we like it or not,’ he says.
Folding my arms, I reply, ‘I don’t.’
He sighs. ‘It doesn’t matter what you think; they’re here, and they’re staying.’
‘As long as they stay away from me.’ Anger rages inside me.
He slams a fist on the desk. ‘You just don’t get it do you? We have a sodding madman on the loose and we need all the help that we can get, Agency suits or not. You will help them, you will damn well assist them in every single way. If Reeves wants you to wipe his arse you’ll do it, you’ll do exactly as the son of a bitch says, ’cos if you don’t – I’ll have your job, is that clear enough for you?’ He’s practically screaming, the sweat pouring down his face, breath rasping.
For the first time in twenty years I nearly throw my warrant card at him; no one is going to take over my case. My hand automatically reaches for it to smack it on the desk, but Mack gets up and grabs hold of my arm.
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ he whispers.
‘Your choice,’ says Grimes, baiting me.
I think about it for a moment. The fear of failure is always uppermost in my mind; if I give in now I’ll be letting down the victims, and they deserve an answer. They needed closure as much as I did.
I stand up with as much restraint as I can muster.
‘I am going to find the killer. Not the Agency suits… me.’
I slam the door as hard as I can on the way out. Mack is beside me in a split second.
‘You’d better cool it.’ He falls into step beside me.
‘Since when were you a friend of Grimes?’ I ask.
‘I’m just here to do my job, the same as you, and for the same reasons – to find this psycho, lock him up and throw away the key.’
‘The Agency are going to be crawling all over us.’
‘Ignore them,’ he says.
I look at him and laugh. ‘You’ve been in this game longer than me, you know how it works. The suits will take over every piece of information, every new lead; they will direct the crime scenes, no doubt messing them up, and when they still can’t find the killer – we will get the blame.’
‘We don’t have a choice, just try and keep them occupied with paperwork; hell, it’s what they do most of the time anyway,’ says Mack as he starts to trundle down the hall.
I merely laugh. ‘If you feel bad now, you’d better get used to it, ’cos by the time they’re through with us, you’re gonna wish you’d put your warrant card on the table.’
CHAPTER 22
After pulling up at Brady’s Pub, I push open the door; the bar is reasonably busy, as all good Irish pubs are. Gaelic music plays in the background, the band warming up for a lively crowd expected later on. I find myself a stool at the far end of the bar, and nod to Neil for a pint of Guinness.
There’s something comforting about the stout, the thick liquid is both peaty and aromatic at the same time, the creamy head fills your mouth with foam, a tantaliser of what is yet to come.
I think about the killer. I’ve thought about nothing else since it all started. A crazed psychopath that’s roaming the streets, probably lining up his next victim ready for the kill right at this very moment. I’ve read all about serial killers and go through it once again in my mind. He’s normally a man who extensively plans and methodically executes his victims. He could be the nice guy next door, the colleague you work with, but oh how he plans.
He will go over each attack methodically in his mind, fine-tuning the smallest of details so that the slaughter meets with his twisted expectations. He approaches his victim with confidence, using a ruse or a con to lure them into a trap – I’m sure our boy is doing this. He would be prepared – he would carry with him a selection of his favourite weapons – in our case, knives. Probably he would have a torture kit as well. He would use the quickest method to get them under control; our boy is snapping the hyoid bone, killing them in fifty seconds. Normally, and I say that in the lightest sense, you would expect a serial to rape and torture first, then kill – that way he gets more pleasure. But like Connie said, our boy is most definitely not normal.
Every second I expect another call on my mobile phone, another dead mutilated body, and a riddle from hell. I feel like I’m living on a knife edge; if this is cat and mouse, as Connie said, I have a bad feeling that this cat is getting fatter by the minute.
Her name keeps popping into my mind, I can’t help it; and God I miss her. It’s almost a physical ache. I long for her touch, to feel her soft sensuous skin against mine, the brush of her luscious hair against my flesh. She has a smile that can light up even the darkest soul in the depths of despair. The intelligent mind that flickers to full strength in an instant, the brain racing into overdrive in a moment when required; her morals are high like mine. We both understand that there are certain times a citizen breaks the law, they make a bad judgment, a mistake and then reform themselves; these aren’t in our eyes true criminals, merely victims of happenstance. A true criminal is one who tries to take something – with planning, intent, cruelty and, most of all, absolutely not a shred of remorse.
I hope to God she understands my reason for sending her away; it was not for convenience, but quite simply for love. I know that somehow the killer would have tried to get to her, perhaps as a means of torturing me, and I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t know where she went in case the son of a bitch is somehow tracing or monitoring my calls. Her face when she walked away from me was so full of sorrow, like I’d somehow let her down; when in fact all I did was try to protect her. Please God, let her be safe.
I nodded at Neil for another Guinness at the same time as a tall, raven-haired and statuesque figure pulls out the bar stool next to me. I glance at her without trying to make it too obvious.
She wears a black crop top, her tanned breasts brimming over; the leather trousers are scarlet, with cobweb lacing up the side of each leg; the boots small sized but with wickedly high heels; the long hair flowing down her back. Her face is in perfect symmetry, an extraordinarily beautiful face, the eyes dark, with long lashes, her lips full and red, but with only a touch of gloss. On a normal day I’d be impressed – very impressed, but today hasn’t been normal; the cases are digging into the pit of my stomach. That, combined with the arrival of the suits from hell and a bollocking from Grimes, hasn’t exactly put me in the greatest mood for company.
‘Hi there,’ she says, extending her manicured hand. No wedding rings, I notice. ‘I’m Ali.’
I try a smile but it doesn’t seem to fit my face. I take the hand. ‘Downey.’
‘Are you from around these parts?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t say a lot, do you?’ She waves a finger at Ne
il who almost comes running.
‘I’ll have a large whisky with ice; my friend here will have the same again.’
She points to my half empty glass.
‘Thanks, but I’m driving.’ I’m flattered.
‘Who’s going to tell the police?’ She laughs from way down in her throat.
I keep my gaze steady. ‘I am the police.’
She blinks in surprise. ‘Well aren’t you the dark horse. Don’t tell me – you’re involved in murders?’
Now it’s my turn. ‘How did you guess?’
‘It must be the sad look on your face, like a man who’s seen too much death lately.’
‘You’re not kidding.’ I swallow another mouthful of Guinness as she sidles up close.
‘How about I follow you home, we can have our own little party?’ She draws me in with her smile, her hand gently covering mine.
Okay, now I’m getting really flattered, but Connie’s face flashes into my mind. I finish my drink quickly, before this becomes any more awkward for both of us.
‘I appreciate the sentiment, but I really don’t think my girlfriend would be too happy about that.’
‘That’s too bad.’ She sips her whisky slowly, savouring the flavour.
‘No offence meant, but you should be careful who you try to pick up, there’s a serial killer on the loose.’ I keep my tone level, trying not to scare her. She simply swallows the rest of the whisky in one gulp and nods for a refill.
‘I haven’t met a man yet that I couldn’t tame,’ she purrs. Oh, I believe that alright.
I shrug on my jacket and kiss her hand. ‘You know the old saying, Ali?’
‘What’s that?’ she asks.
‘You lie down with the devil – you wake up in hell.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
The rain has started again, falling steadily, the city swamped in a puddle of grey. I pull out onto the main street and head for home. Teenagers are still out at this time of night, drinking and partying away; the girls in skimpy clothes, tottering in high heels, oblivious to the weather as long as they look good. It always surprises me just how many people party in the city at this time of year. I guess Manchester is a pretty popular place, probably all the University students… actually, on normal quiet days I love it myself. It’s just that nothing feels normal anymore.
I drive slowly through the throbbing army of cars desperate to get home after a hard day’s work, but what do I have to go back to? An empty flat that will be black and cold as I’ve forgotten to put the heating on timer; no warmth from the woman that I love, no smile to light up a crap day, and no intelligent conversation, just the usual crap on the television that bores me witless.
The bed seemed too big without Connie. It’s worse than when she just went away for work, or travelling home to Virginia; this time there’s a chance she might not come back at all. I know how wounded she was at my attitude; she’s one determined lady who can deal with some of the worst killers in the world. The difference is that they’re always locked up – this time our killer is running loose and, in my opinion, headed towards a collision with me. I want her far away where the lecherous son of a bitch can’t get to her – what’s so wrong in that?
I seem to scan every face that I pass – is he the killer? Is he watching me now? And just what exactly does he want or need from me? I still have no answers; I can only think that it’s some sick tosser that I’ve put away, and this is his way of getting back at me. Will I be the final victim? I have an uneasy feeling that’s exactly what I am going to be.
The bloody rap tune from hell blares into life as my mobile phone rings; I want to pick it up and chuck it out of the window. Instead I slide it open and press it to my ear.
‘Downey here.’ It’s Mack.
‘We got a call from the morgue.’
‘What’s up?’
‘It would appear that someone has taken the hands from Stacey Bun.’
I nearly crash the bloody car.
‘What do you mean, taken the hands?’ I’m clenching the steering wheel without even knowing it.
‘At some time between 3 p.m. and 7 p.m. this evening, Stacey Bun had her hands sawn off.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘Was the place closed?’
Mack sniggers. ‘Nope, since when did a morgue shut up shop? It’s a walk-in twenty-four hour store, open for the business of the dead.’
‘So how did the bastard get in?’ I ask Mack.
‘No one knows, so if you’d care to get your arse down here, it would help.’
‘Do the suits know yet?’
‘No.’
Good, I think. ‘Then let’s keep it that way. Be there in ten.’
I throw the phone onto the passenger seat in disgust. Seems every time I answer it there’s more bad news.
I flick on the siren and gun the Alfa all the way to the mortuary. I drive down the back entrance to the city hospital of St Joseph. Most morgues are located in the basement of a hospital, I don’t think too many people realise that. It’s usually far away from the lifts, the wards, and the flower stands, but usually pretty close to the kitchen; perhaps that’s why most patients don’t like hospital food.
I flash my card at the security guy and walk straight in – not a good sign; anybody these days can have a fake ID. The hallway is connected to several other doors, which lead to various sites within the hospital; again, not a good signal. I take my time making my way down the stairs; I can hear Mack’s voice, deep and obviously annoyed. In some morgues you find that the stainless steel fridges are lined against one wall, but in St Joseph’s they have a whole room to themselves.
I open the door to hear Mack and Doc Baines arguing.
‘You mean that sometimes the door is locked, and sometimes not?’ asks Mack.
‘That’s correct,’ says Baines, although he seems agitated.
‘Why would you leave it unlocked?’
‘If someone from a funeral home was coming to collect a body, we would normally leave it unlocked for them.’
Mack sees me and shakes his head in despair. ‘The door was unlocked.’
‘So I hear. From what time?’ I ask.
Doc Baines fidgets in his blue scrubs. ‘Probably from around three to five.’
‘Don’t funeral directors have to sign to collect a body?’
‘Of course they do,’ Baines snaps. I know he feels bad, but he has to answer questions just like anyone else.
‘I’ve already got the list,’ says Mack.
‘How would the funeral director know which door to open up?’ I ask, gazing at the rows of stainless steel boxes.
Baines points. ‘On the board is a list of names, with corresponding door numbers,’ he replies. ‘Once the body has been removed, the box is ticked with name of the funeral home signing, and on the removal list a box is ticked and signed again for the morgue attendants so that they can clean out the slab.’
‘So how come Stacey Bun was found today? Was someone due to pick her up?’ I ask.
‘No,’ says Baines. ‘When the funeral directors of Springhill came in, they found that the door was open, the slab had been pulled out and her hands were missing. The pieces of bone and flesh on the floor I guess alerted them that she hadn’t died that way.’
His eyes are weary, the face pale. It isn’t often I see Baines this way; he’s a careful and sympathetic FME, one of the best, meticulous in the autopsy and I can’t imagine that he’s any other way in any aspect of the job. Obviously our killer knew the workings of the morgue carefully; could he work here? Or did he once work here?
‘Which one is she in?’ I ask.
‘Number 38,’ says Baines.
I glance down. ‘Where’s the evidence from the floor?’ I ask.
Baines gestures to another door. ‘On a slab in the morgue being analysed as we speak.’
‘You touched a crime scene?’ I ask in disbelief.
‘Look,’ he says, ‘I h
ave over one hundred and forty bodies in here, another six are due to be picked up later tonight and taken away for embalming, God knows how many more people will die tonight, and I have to have safe slabs with a regulated temperature to keep the bodies cool.’
One hundred and forty bodies, Jesus Christ!
He continues, ‘I had no choice but to remove the small fragments of evidence. I can assure you that the crime scene has been photographed and videotaped from every conceivable angle. The floors have been checked for fibres, all evidence again is on another slab, but with the amount of traffic that we get in here you’re unlikely to find something substantial.’ He rubs his head across the creased brow lines.
‘I need a record of all employees , past and present,’
‘It’s being done,’ says Baines. I know he’ll try his best; it’s just the sheer bloomin’ amazement that our boy had been in here and taken his trophy. How can someone just walk in, pull out a body, sever the hands, and walk out?
‘I need to see her.’ Although I don’t really want to, I have no choice.
Baines walks over to number thirty-eight, opens the door and slides the tray out. She’s so pale, the face almost suspended in time; the hair which had been matted with blood and brains has now been cleaned, all the evidence collected, and washed away during the post-mortem.
‘I’m going to need you to take another look,’ I say.
‘Now?’ asks Baines.
‘Afraid so,’ I reply.
‘I’ll get David to bring her through You guys get suited up if you’re coming in.’ I swear I see Mack’s eyes light up; what is it with him and morgues?
We suit up outside, second-hand scrubs from the surgeons upstairs that have been sterilized – neither of us bother with the surgical masks. We enter. The autopsy suite is busy; with its exposed pipes in the ceiling and drains in the tiled floor it looks like an industrial unit – I guess in a way it is. She lies on the table in the centre of the room. All around us other doctors are performing autopsies; the drilling of bones pierces the air and I try my best to ignore the sounds and focus on Stacey Bun.