by G. M. CLARK
I get started in the kitchen, cracking eggs into a bowl, with a dash of butter, pepper and a smidge of paprika; just like mum taught me. The bacon sizzles; I slice the tomatoes in half, add a knob of butter to each, and add them to the grill. I stick the coffee percolator on again. I flip the omelettes until they’re lightly brown on each side; the plates are warmed and I simply slide the food on. The smell has made me famished; the toast earlier hadn’t been nearly enough. Damn, it’s good to be cooking for her again.
I place the two plates on the dining room table, and poured fresh mugs of coffee.
‘Breakfast’s ready.’ I call.
‘Coming.’ She’s still absorbed.
‘Hey, get your pert arse over here, and eat your good man’s breakfast.’
She glances up and smiles. ‘Sorry.’
The food is delicious if I do say so myself. She eats as though her life depends on it, though I suspect the real reason is to get straight back on the laptop.
‘I don’t think it’s a rhyme or a story,’ I say.
A look of exasperation passes across her face. ‘Don’t give up now, we only just got started.’
‘That’s my point.’ I smile.
She gives me one of her famous meaningful looks. ‘Then I must have missed it.’
Don’t you ever find that women have selective hearing?
‘I don’t think our killer would have us chasing through thousands of stories.’
She seems to pay attention. ‘Why not?’
‘Because it could take weeks, maybe even months.’
‘Your point being?’ Her voice is slightly clipped.
‘He sent the riddles to be solved, so why then bury them in a story that we can’t find?’ I can see her mulling it over.
‘True, he’s set you a task, but you don’t know if all the riddles are in yet.’
‘I think they are.’ My mind has just stepped up about thirty gears – strange for me, I know, but it does happen now and again.
‘How can you be sure?’ I can see she’s trying to follow my train of thought.
‘Because the killings were calculated, methodical, and his time frame gained such rapid speed. If he was still going, we would have heard something else by now.’
She nods. ‘I can see where you’re coming from, but it could be that he’s just completely lost it.’
‘No, if he’d done that he wouldn’t be thinking straight enough to have sent me the riddle last night.’ I swallow a mouthful of coffee as I feel the adrenalin kick in. ‘Bring me the list of answers.’ She glares at me.
‘Pretty please.’
‘That’s more like it.’ God, anyone would think we were married.
She grabs the notepad and brings it over to the table.
A TREE
IMAGINATION
A MIRROR
FAITH
DRUGS, ALCOHOL or A MASK
THE KING OF SPADES
HELL
I stare at those goddamn seven words for what seems like hours. If you send riddles, the answers are hidden in the clues; is there an answer hidden in these? I pick up a pen and start marking off different letters in alternative orders – nothing. I lean back in the chair, unconsciously rubbing my fingers through my hair, and then it all falls into place.
A TREE
IMAGINATION
A MIRROR
FAITH
DRUGS, ALCOHOL or A MASK
THE KING OF SPADES
HELL
Jesus, I’m on cloud nine; no, actually I’m even further above it. I have the name of our killer at last – TIM FASH – the suspected killer of Junior, and a renowned drug dealer, with a penchant for topping off those that either piss him off, owe him money, or that he just doesn’t like.
Connie sees the look of exultation on my face.
‘We’ve got him,’ I yelled. ‘We’ve fuckin’ got the bastard.’
Oh, I’m coming Fash; I’m coming just for you!
CHAPTER 26
I’m driving the Alfa like a Formula One racing car, although the traffic isn’t as heavy as normal. I weave in and out, overtaking whenever I can, grinding the gears until the engine screeches in protest, adrenaline washing through me like I’ve overdosed on crack.
I do a Mack and slide the car into the station car park, Miami vice style – not bad if I say so myself. I take the stairs three at a time, and head straight for the squad room, my mind on constant overdrive, my heart pumping like fury.
I spot Mack sneakily smoking a cigarette and gulping coffee from a thin plastic cup. I throw down the evidence bag containing the last riddle; Mack just stares.
‘Not another one,’ he says.
‘We’ve got him, Mack.’
His eyes light up like sparklers on bonfire night.
‘Who?’
‘Tim Fash.’ He drops the coffee.
I show him the notepad; his eyes are like bullets, sharp and deadly.
‘Bloody hell, that drug dealing son of a bitch who killed Junior is our killer?’
‘So it would appear.’
‘I knew he was a murdering bastard, but a serial killer?’
I nod. ‘Perhaps he’s started using his own product?’
Mack grins. ‘Better go tell Grimes.’
I can tell Mack is aching to seek revenge for Junior, and I can’t blame him.
We stride to Grimes’ office, hoping to make his morning for him. Rapping at the door we are called in. Once again, I go through the riddles and answers with Grimes, and then show him how the name was hidden.
I can see him trying to grasp the connections. ‘It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?’
‘No, no other names are hidden there; it’s him alright,’ says Mack. He’d have staked his life on it right there, right then, if it meant getting justice for Junior.
‘You tell the suits?’ This is a question I was hoping he wouldn’t ask.
‘Nope, thought it was my case to solve. Personal, you know?’
He glances at me and gives the briefest flicker of a smile. ‘I’ll send them home.’
I see Reeves standing outside the door. Grimes nods to me, and then beckons Reeves in. The slimy twat stands to attention, the face impassive, as Mack and I lean back in our chairs, smugness written all over our faces.
‘Reeves, this ‘crap copper’ has actually traced the killer you’ll be thrilled to know; so get the rest of your suits, your phoney accents and your damn arrogance, and get the hell out of my station.’
I have the pleasure of watching Reeves and his associates slink away; damn, it feels good, really good.
For once Grimes actually seems to understand. ‘Good work, Downey, but we’ve got no physical evidence against this guy yet. I’ll send Fletch to Judge Morris for an immediate search warrant; you two get the teams ready to go in.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Call in the firearms units, and the air support units as a backup,’ demands Grimes.
‘But sir?’ begins Mack, wanting just the two of us to take Fash down.
‘Just do it. Remember, this guy’s not just a killer, he’s a bloody madman.’
Organised chaos reigns. Coppers are pouring into police cars. Sirens start screaming, guns are checked and holstered, body armour is snapped on. Mack and I look at each other – we know now the hunt is nearly at an end, but this has got to be done right. We can’t afford to slip up in case the son of a bitch gets away; or worse than that, has the time to put a bullet through our heads. We’re both nervous; apprehensive but fired up and ready to do battle.
Grimes has told us to stay back and wait for the first firearms team to arrive, but we both know that isn’t how it’s going to happen. We both want this murdering arsehole, and we want him either dead or alive; makes no difference to us. I just want to get him, to stop the senseless killing of guiltless victims in my city.
I turn to Mack. ‘Remember, be careful; he’s one clever son of a bitch.’
Mack is like a livewire, tensed
with his jaw set and steel in his eyes. ‘We’re going to nail him,’ he says. There’s no question in his mind.
‘You gotta slow the heart rate down now, everything nice and steady. Breathe, Mack.’ He nods. ‘Remember, he who loses control – loses,’ I remind him.
As we stride to our car, all I can think of is the riddles. So many people have died for one person’s twisted and warped mind, for the revenge in tormenting the frail, the meek and the innocent. I hope to God I’m going to get the pleasure of bringing the son of a bitch in.
Now I know you think we coppers are just supposed to go and capture the bad guys, but there are some cases like this when all you see are the constant flashbacks of the dead, the dying, and the horrendous grief of the families left behind – and all down to this one person. No, I would not care if a member of the firearms unit put a bullet right through this killer’s heart. As far as I’m concerned, that’s exactly where a bullet belonged.
Mack and I slide into our car, checking that all units are cleared and ready to go. The tension was almost unbearable between us, but neither of us are up for chatting. Focus… focus on staying alive.
Just as we’re about to drive out, Connie raps at the window. I bring it down; I can see the fear in her eyes, hear her laboured breathing. I press my fingers around hers, squeezing them; she squeezes them right back. And in some strange defining moment, amidst all the heightened testosterone and macho men being loaded up with weapons, I realise right there and then just how much I love her, how much I need her; and looking into her eyes, I can see that she feels exactly the same way.
‘It’s going to be alright,’ I say. The first tears fall, tumbling down her cheek. Mack looks the other way.
‘Please don’t do anything rash, he’s a crazed killer, please.’ Her eyes plead with me.
‘I’m going to be fine, don’t worry.’
She softly says, ‘Come back to me.’
I smile at her, brush away a stray tear. ‘I will… I promise.’
She moves back as Mack guns the accelerator pedal and we speed away. I watch her in the wing mirror, standing alone and waiting for me to come back. Jesus, I hope I fulfil that promise. Now, focus.
As we swing out onto the main streets, we quickly take over and become the lead car. I spot the police helicopter and light aircraft coming in. Time to move, at last we were finally going to get him.
‘You think Tim finally fell off the rails because of his drug habit?’ asks Mack, while driving at seventy miles an hour.
I hang on for grim death. ‘Perhaps seeing the work of his hitmen has rubbed off on him; you know, some serials are surrounded by death and destruction for years before they start their own sick fantasy.’
Mack scrapes past cars with no regard for my safety, or his own.
‘He used to have a mansion in Knutsford years back, I remember, wonder what happened to bring him down to a seedy flat on the wrong side of town?’ he replies.
‘His file shows that he was caught six years ago for drug dealing. A large haul was found in his house worth several hundred thousand pounds, but as he had four long-term friends living there, and there was no other evidence to tie him personally to the drugs, the tosser got away with merely a heavy fine and probation. I doubt after he was caught, he managed to maintain the low profile required for the big drugs cartels who want you to quietly push large amounts of crack around. More than likely, he started using what he could himself and went downhill.’ I hope the son of a bitch had suffered badly in some way… any way.
‘Life just drags you down,’ smiles Mack, almost clipping a new Lexus which veers into oncoming traffic, but the driver swerves back into the right lane at the last moment. His passenger looks like he’s about to have a heart attack. I know the aftershocks of Mack’s driving, so I can sympathise.
I stare out the window, noticing only the constant blur of traffic. I see Connie’s face flash past and try to focus my mind. Control your mind, control the day.
We pull up first; the sirens have been switched off so as not to alert him. Even before the engine is switched off I’ve kicked open the door, my feet racing towards the flat building. I can hear Mack close behind, hear him panting already.
Police cars slide into position; armed response vehicles screech up. Expertly, they pull their guns and take up positions from every conceivable angle, trying to cover all entry and exit points. The helicopter dances overhead, its rotor blades carving through the air.
‘Where’s Downey and Mack?’ screams Grimes.
‘They’re already in sir,’ replies the nearest copper.
Grimes kicks the car door. ‘Goddamn it, I told them to stay back.’
I’m racing up the stairs three at a time, ignoring the lift, my taser already drawn; although frankly I wish it was a handgun. A woman opens her door, a small child gripping her hand; I flash my card and roughly shove them back in, no time for niceties now. Flat 4c. We stand at either side of the door, each catching our breath, trying to slow our racing heartbeats down.
‘Have we got confirmation of the search warrant?’ I whisper. I’m not letting this bastard get off on a technicality; everything has to be done right.
Mack nods and motions to his inside jacket pocket. Cleared to go.
I give Mack the nod and kick the door in; it bursts open like a piece of paper. Silently I move through the hall, my senses on heightened alert. Go on Fash, make my day and stick your neck out, so I can pump fifty thousand volts into you, and then Mack can pump fifty thousand more.
The main room is dark; the only light filters in from behind a flickering tatty curtain. I can see a computer is switched on, the screen saver a riot of explosions; so this guy thinks he has a sense of humour. Mack nudges me; I see the stockpile of weapons and drugs lined up like his own deranged, doped-up shop. We check each cupboard, wardrobe; nothing, not a damn thing. He’s nowhere to be found – did he get tipped off? By whom?
‘Fuck it.’ My fury is palpable.
‘This place is like a flippin’ army depot,’ says Mack, picking up a Glock 22.
I’m seething with frustration. ‘What’s the son of a bitch planning now?’
Just as the words come out of my mouth, another flat door opens with a creak and footsteps stop at ours. We both swivel round at the same time.
‘You bastards,’ shouts Fash, bringing up his gun.
‘Down,’ I scream at Mack. Fash shoots at me as I tumble towards the bedroom door, the bullet skimming off my leg; drawing blood, but with no major damage. Fash turns and breaks for the stairs, as he fires again a bullet smashes into the door frame. Shit, we’re sitting targets. Mack glances at me and picks up the Glock 22.
‘Don’t do it, Mack,’ I yell. He checks the bullets and grabs some spare. I can’t stop him.
Mack is out of the door first, his gun in hand, cocked and ready. He’s off running down the hall as I drag myself up and out after them.
Fash is up ahead. ‘Drop the fucking gun,’ Mack screams, as Fash turns and shoots at him.
I hear the distinct shot of a bullet hitting the door frame, splintering it. Fash breaks for the window at the end of the hallway. Mack fires, it misses as the glass explodes, shattering with the shot. Fash ignores it and dives through like a flippin’ gymnast, landing on the fire escape. He’s up and running. Mack’s already after him; I’m following close behind.
‘We got one runnin’, he went out of the back,’ I scream into the radio.
Mack hurtles through the window with me moments behind him; we both clatter down the fire escape.
‘Mack, don’t,’ I’m still screaming.
Fash stands square at the bottom; two armed coppers appear around the corner. Bang bang, both killed instantly. Shit! Fash hardly breaks stride as he bends down and picks up their weapons, and keeps on running, turning every few seconds and firing at us. The promise I made Connie flashes though my mind. I try to get a guess on how far away he is for the taser, but it’s pointless; he’s moving far
too fast. He’s flying as high as a flippin’ kite, I think.
Fash turns and kicks a door open, and I can hear footsteps on the stairwell. Mack is first through after him.
A young man in a pinstriped suit appears; Fash shoots him straight through the head, and his body topples down. Mack jumps over him, focused. I grab the guy as he groans, blood seeping from his head. His eyes flicker, he’s fading fast.
‘Goddamn it.’ I know he only has seconds to live. ‘We’ve got another one down, Fash is still running.’ I yell into the radio. Where the hell is everyone?
Fash hears one of the lift doors slide open, he swivels.
‘Hi,’ he says.
‘Hello,’ replies a woman, her dress billowing. As she exits he shoots her in the back of the head; brains, skull and flesh erupt, as she crumples to the ground.
Fash leaps into the lift, and the doors start to close. Mack sees a gap and firing blindly, squeezes into it. The doors slide shut before I can get there.
‘Mack!’ I’m screaming – I know I’m screaming.
‘MACK!’
CHAPTER 27
The lift is empty, and it’s starting to move. Mack looks up and sees that the lift hatch is open; the son of a bitch is probably on top. He takes aim at where he thinks Fash is and shoots. In reply – shots rain down on him, pinging off the lift walls; he can feel the heat of a bullet in his shoulder and tumbles backwards, pain piercing every fibre of his being.
‘Shit, son of a bitch.’
He quickly reloads, blood seeping down his left arm, dribbling onto his hand – my blood, he thinks. As the elevator continues to rise, another hail of bullets sprays down on him. Pain ruptures through him as he tries dodging, struggling to get out of the way of the onslaught.
One enters his leg, another rips though his chest, his body convulsing. He knows it’s bad, there’s blood everywhere, rich ruby-red blood draining the very life from him, and seeping slowly over the floor.