by G. M. CLARK
‘You know, you’re some sort of woman.’
‘I know.’ She kisses my nose, licks behind my ear, right at the spot where it drives me nuts.
I sigh with unrestrained pleasure. ‘Mack’s going to be just fine, it’ll take some time, but he’ll get there.’
‘Betty phoned, she sounded okay. A little worried, but okay.’ Her tongue flicks across my neck.
I turn in towards her so she doesn’t miss my favourite parts. ‘You know you never expect it to be your partner. Yourself – yes, but somehow not your partner.’
‘Well, as long as you got the killer, that’s all that counts. Too bad he’s dead though, I would’ve liked to interview him.’ Her hands stray down below my waist.
I sit bolt upright. ‘You are kidding me.’ I look at her as though she’s a complete nutcase; she simply laughed at my expression.
‘It’s part of my job. Whenever you can get the chance to talk to a serial you have to take it, try to get into their minds; it can open up new insights. Sometimes they boast, giving more information that I can perhaps use the next time.’
‘Next time… Jesus, give me a break.’ She pushes me back down onto the bed.
‘You know, my profile wasn’t quite right, it’s not like me.’ I can tell she was drifting back into her own little world.
I pull her close, kissing her hard on the mouth. ‘Will you please shut up now?’ I say, and yank her further down the bed.
My hands roam freely over the soft flesh, feeling the heat build inside her. I nibble at her breasts, cupping them in my hands, possessive. My mouth licks down her stomach, over her hips, my tongue flicking, soaking in the very soul of her, tasting the scent, breathing her deeply, further into my heart. Her fingers rake at my back, clawing, as my mouth moves to the soft, warm inside of her legs. I spread her, unfolding her like a flower, ripe, ready for the picking. I tease her, bringing her to heights that she finds almost unbearable. When she’s near her climax, I stop and pull myself on top of her; her eyes are hungry, needy. I plunge in, as far as I can, feeling her wet warmth enclose me. We move quickly into a rhythm, until she flips me onto my back and straddles me, her face wide with power, excitement. We move in perfect synchronicity, her breasts full, pert; she abandons herself completely, as do I , her hair cascading down her back, brushing my legs, and when we can stand it no more, we rub together, climaxing in a desperate surge to tip each over the edge.
And then I hear her words. I love you, God I will love you for all of time. And then I realise I said – Stay with me forever, love me forever.
And I know I mean every single word.
CHAPTER 30
The night is black, deathly still. Thoughts pervade through my head, I can’t sleep; although my body is sated, my brain keeps ticking over – tick, tick, tick.
I slip out of bed and patter through to the kitchen; pour myself a large glass of whisky and sit staring blankly out of the window. The street lamps cast their orange glow, staining the empty pavements below. It’s desolate; no cars or people are about at this time. I think of Mack lying under the starched hospital sheets, wired up, and I miss him; I feel the need to talk to him, but instead console myself with the fiery liquid that trickles down the back of my throat.
I flick on the television and switch to the twenty-four hour news channel, muting the volume. It’s not long before I see pictures of Tim Fash’s body being carted away in a white body bag. I feel nothing – no outpouring of the hatred that has been pent up for weeks, no eternal satisfaction that the son of a bitch had died; Why is that?
Thoughts are playing on my mind, floating slowly to the surface as I drum my fingers on the table. I go through it all again in my mind, and one nasty thought sticks there.
Why would such a deranged killer make such a simple mistake? He planned everything with meticulous anticipation. He’d sent the riddles so that I could find him – why wasn’t he prepared for us?
I gulp the rest of my whisky down in one go, tap off the television, and make my way back to bed. As I slip back between the sheets, Connie wraps herself around me, shrouding me, holding me close even in sleep.
I stroke her hair softly, my hand rests on her warm shoulder, and I can feel sleep easing me back. tempting me to switch off my mind. But that one question still stays with me.
Why did Tim Fash stick his head back through the opening?
I get up before Connie and quietly snap open her briefcase, pulling out a copy of her profiles.
‘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. 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.’
None of it fits Tim Fash – I’m getting one of my really bad gut feelings again. Connie walks through, dropping a kiss on my head as I sit reading at the table. She takes a couple of steps away, and then comes back.
‘What are you doing?’ Bewilderment is written on her face.
‘Reading your profile’
‘Are you trying to make me look bad?’ She smiles as she said it, but I know she’s thinking there is a grain of truth there.
‘Just checking.’ I keep my voice level, giving away nothing.
She pulls out a chair. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter if my profile was wrong, sometimes it just happens. The main thing is that you caught him. It’s over Downey, it’s over.’
I snap shut the briefcase and pulled her close. I don’t want to worry her.
‘I know,’ is all I can say. But do I believe it?
Strolling through the crowded streets, with people jostling, desperate to gain an extra yard or two and impatient drivers honking their horns, I can smell the city fog, feel it saturate me. The smell of breakfast hits me as I walk past a cafe, the smell of fresh baked muffins and hot mocha sends my stomach into overdrive and I suddenly realise I’m starving. I walk in, and choose a freshly-baked bran muffin and a tall hot latte, and walk along eating, the steam rising from the muffin. Damn, it tastes good.
Stopping at Fred’s news stand I point to the first tabloid fodder while noticing he’s grinning like the Cheshire cat this morning. He tosses me the paper, which I manage to catch, popping the last of the muffin into my mouth, and pass him the money.
‘You boys are in the headlines again today,’ he says. ‘I can hardly keep up with the demand; everyone seems to want to get hold of the local news this morning.’ I glance at the paper and see a picture of Mack being wheeled into the ambulance; there’s also one of the body bag following and a grinning Superintendent Grimes’ face. I’m thankful that I’ve finished eating.
‘Looks like it,’ I reply.
‘Well, at least it’s for all the right reasons this time,’ he says, while handing out more copies.
I nod and walk on as an old tramp brushes into me on purpose.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of Mack.’ He smells like a walking dustbin, the clothes ripped, torn and filthy. His hair is matted thick with filth, and God knows what else is living in there; the stale smell of booze invades my nostrils so that I have to partially turn my face away.
‘What?’ I try to shove past him.
‘Mack… I’ve got him that information.’
‘What information?’ I ask, my eyes suspicious.
He leans forward and whispers. ‘Tell him I know where the killer is.’
‘You mean Fash?’ I’m confused.
‘And I know how,’ he goes on.
I shove past him, feeling the puny bones rub against mine. ‘You’re too late, we already got him.’
‘But…’
I walk
off. I say again, ‘We got him.’
Who the hell was that? Some weird street nutter no doubt after money – aren’t they always?
The damn mobile phone rings again. As I watch, the tramp disappears into the throng, and I put him out of mind.
‘Downey here.’
‘You need to get back to headquarters right now.’ It’s Grimes, and he doesn’t sound happy.
‘What the hell for?’ I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
‘You’ve got another letter – this time marked personally for you,’ says Grimes
‘You’ve already opened it?’ Disbelief; why are they still checking my mail?
‘Yes.’
‘Well?’ I wait for an explanation, but don’t get one.
‘Just get your arse back here – now.’
All I hear is the dial tone. Snapping the phone closed I head back to the car. What the shit is going on? Did Tim Fash send me a letter before he died? Why would he?
I push the Alfa to its limit and I’m in the squad room in fifteen minutes. There’s a crowd milling around the desk – my desk. Forensics are bagging the letter and the envelope; it’s already scribbled onto one of my pads.
To Detective Inspector Downey, with thanks.
1 - I am the first month of the year, every year until the end of time.
2 - I did as I wanted, and deserved, I commanded as only the supreme ruler can.
3 - I am the enemy of God.
4 - These supposed futile objects will spare them of my powers – I don’t think so.
5 - Ah, now this is what I deserve and shall have, as you can never punish me – I am the punisher.
6 - Two together you and I will battle the good fight, I will win of course.
7 - This is exactly what I am, the supreme male ruler.
Dear Robert, I want to thank you for what you’ve done. You’ve saved the world from a sadistic and cruel murderer. Many years ago I asked for the above and did not get it, however I’m delighted that you have lived up to your reputation as one of Manchester’s finest investigative coppers, and solved this heinous crime. For that, and that alone – I congratulate you.
Your nemesis.
I can’t fuckin’ speak. What the hell is going on? I know my mouth is wide open; my hands tremble as I pick up the notepad and read it again.
Grimes stands waiting for me to talk. I can only shake my head.
‘What do you think?’ asks Grimes, his face contorted.
‘I haven’t a damn clue. It’s not a riddle; it’s a series of clues, completely different to what we’ve had before.’
‘Who knew to send it from the “nemesis”?’ he barks.
‘Hell, it could be from anyone, half the flippin’ media know what was in the letters.’
Grimes nods. ‘You think it’s a copycat.’
I pause. ‘Well, considering Tim Fash is dead it has to be.’
‘File it.’ He walks away, apparently satisfied – I wish I could feel the same.
I wander into the case room, where the pictures of the dead stare at me from boards; I pace up and down, reading every line over and over and over. Tim Fash had run, he’d used his gun the instant he saw us, he’d killed others without a moment’s hesitation and his flat was a minefield of guns and drugs. Forensics even unearthed some explosives. No, no matter what small niggling doubts I have, I push them to the furthest recess of my mind and close the door on the dead.
And shut it tight.
CHAPTER 31
I decide I need a change of scenery; I want something other than death to absorb me for the day. I need space and lots of it, preferably with the woman I love. I tell Fletch I’m taking the rest of the day off, absolutely no phone calls are allowed unless they’re urgent – and I emphasise the word urgent.
Then I call Connie at home and ask her to meet me at Alexandra Park, at our usual spot. I tell her to wrap up warm and to bring a blanket. She does seem to wonder what the hell is going on, but says she’ll do it. I don’t think she has any inkling of my intentions; hell, everyone’s allowed to let romance into their soul, even a crusty old DI like me. And after all we’ve been through, I think it’s about time I take matters into my own hands and let the woman – and the whole world – know that I want to spend the rest of my life with her, and only her.
I race back into the city, drop my order off at Sparks and say I’ll pick it up in an hour. Next stop, the jewellers. I know, kind of makes your heart thump now, doesn’t it?
I search about ten jewellers before I find that perfect ring; simple, expensive and timeless, just like her. It’s a yellow square diamond, surrounded by smaller white diamonds, with a platinum shank; it’s stunning and it matches the colour of her hair. I pay by credit card – just as well I have a rather large limit – and put the small box in my inside coat pocket. My future happiness rests softly in the lining of my jacket, as the rest of the hurried preparations are put into place.
The weather is holding out fine for me; it might be the end of January but the sun is shining, and with not a breath of wind, it’s actually quite mild.
I pick up the picnic basket at Sparks and kiss Cathy on the cheek; it’s overflowing with goodies.
‘How much?’ I ask, grinning at her.
‘This one’s on me,’ she says, and gives me a slight wink.
‘Look, you know my policy, I always pay my way.’ I start to get my wallet out.
‘And you know mine. I like to reward someone for a job well done. Now go on and take it.’ She shoves the basket in my hands; I bend over and kiss her briefly on the lips. I don’t know who’s more embarrassed, her or me. But stuff it; the food of romance is stirring my soul, and it’s a complete first for me.
I do a naughty thing – climbing back into my Alfa, I flick on the siren and floor it. Now normally you can only do this for emergencies and not for unofficial business; but what the hell, I decided to do it anyway. I certainly don’t want her getting there before me; I still have things to do.
I arrive at the old oak tree, and bless Cathy she’s already got the outdoor heaters set up exactly where I’d asked for them; that’s another favour I owe. They’re starting to mount up.
I lay out the car rug – not the prettiest but it’ll have to do – and spread out the picnic; chicken legs, crusty French bread, assorted pâtés, cheeses, grapes, and a huge variety of assorted sandwiches, bulging at the seams. I pop the cork on the champagne, and wait on the woman of my dreams. Who says men can’t do romance? Bullshit.
She arrives about ten minutes later, and after I’ve checked the box is still in my inside pocket about a hundred times, I watch her stroll towards me. She’s wearing a caramel cashmere coat, with a honey scarf thrown loosely around her shoulders. The long legs are encased in pale green trousers, with simple brown pointed boots. Her hair flows freely, and swishes as she walked; yes, the woman of my dreams.
She seemed surprised at my plan; well, most people would. I’m not exactly the most romantic guy in the world, and whoever heard of a picnic in a park in Manchester, in the middle of winter? Still, hopefully she’ll remember it for years to come. I’m praying she’ll say yes. Please, let her say yes.
‘What are you up to?’ she purrs.
‘Just taking time out for a special lady.’ I act like this was just an everyday occurrence.
She smiles and sits down, throwing the blanket over both of us.
‘What are you really up to?’ She leans over and kisses me.
‘Chicken leg?’ I offer, trying my best to look innocent, while my heart is thudding; I swear you can see it pulsate out of my chest.
She takes a sandwich instead. ‘Glass of Dom?’ I fill it and hand it to her. The tiny bubbles pop, rising to the surface.
‘Downey, what’s up? She gives me one of her looks.
‘Nothing, I swear.’ I ram a chicken leg in my mouth – nothing, just that I’m going to ask you to marry me.
‘Where’s the band then?’ She l
ooks around. Damn it, I hadn’t thought of that. I turn to see her giggling – oh, very funny.
I press my hand once again to my jacket pocket; still there. Then just as I’m about to do the declaring of love speech that I’ve prepared, my damn mobile phone rings.
‘Shit, I said no calls, only for emergencies.’
‘It must be an emergency then,’ she replies, sipping her champagne.
I groan and slide it open.
‘Downey here.’ I snap. Jesus, I’m mad as hell.
‘You’ve got a suspicious circumstances,’ says the voice.
‘Can’t you get someone else to cover it?’ I’m really pissed off.
‘Nope, Grimes wants you there.’
I sigh; this is not going according to plan. ‘Tell Grimes I’m having a well-deserved day off.’
‘Not now you’re not.’
‘Why not?’ I ask, not bothering to conceal my mounting frustration.
‘Because this murder has all the hallmarks of the serial killings. You’d better get there fast.’
My heart actually skips a beat, I feel it. I note down the address and say I’m on my way. Connie doesn’t look irritated, just concerned.
‘Something come up?’
‘You could say that.’ I rise to my feet and start to clear away the picnic. I don’t want to tell her a damn thing – not yet anyway.
‘Look, you go. I’ll take all of this home, we can finish it later,’ she replies with no note of annoyance whatsoever – how does she do that?
I just nod as I feel the old adrenaline kick through me; I feel it all the way to the pit of my stomach, and then fear pitches all the way down to my toes.
‘Thanks hon.’ I kiss her hard on the mouth and then walk away without turning back to throw her a wave. I’d been so close in asking her to be my wife, only to be interrupted by another death – which someone suspects is linked to my serial killer; it couldn’t be.