by G. M. CLARK
Could it?
CHAPTER 32
I drive to the house like a man deranged; perhaps I am. How the hell could someone copycat Tim Fash so quickly? Sure, we all know copycats are out there; they prey on other killers’ ideas, trying to emulate themselves on notoriety alone. It isn’t the first time it has been done, and it won’t be the last… more’s the pity.
As I pull over at number 23, I’m pleased to see there are no media vans for a change; everyone’s still no doubt writing articles and digging up information on Tim Fash. Good, it keeps them out of my way. I miss Mack not waiting for me, the easy companionship that comes with years of trust and mutual respect; it leaves a vacant hole by my side. I don my white protective suit and notice that the FME’s van is already here; let’s hope it’s Susan.
The hallway is dark; there are no windows to let in the natural light and the electrics don’t seem to be working. That’s never a good sign. Still, I can see daylight coming from the back bedroom.
The house is fairly new and modern inside; smart leather sofas, rugs on the floor, a pine table with magazines scattered, and an eclectic mix of paintings decorate the living room walls.
I carefully make my way to the bedroom trying to absorb every tiny detail; once again I’d noticed that the door lock had not been broken. The house is immaculately neat and tidy. I see the crime techs sketching various other rooms in the house, teams of forensics are checking every particle, fibre and clothing for prints or DNA.
I nod at Susan and she beckons me in; damn, she still looks good. On the bed lies Sara Mason; I notice that the window had been popped, which explains how her killer got in and probably back out.
She lies face up, her face covered in multiple stab wounds; I quickly count around twenty. The cheeks have been sliced open, revealing the bones and soft tissues underneath. From the bruising around her arms and ankles, it’s obvious that she had been bound, although the incriminating ligatures have been removed by the killer. I’m struck by the utter sadness in her eyes, as though death had come quickly, urgently; and for an instant I’m thinking again of Mack, and how damn close he’d come to death.
Her chest has been sliced open in the shape of a Y, a typical autopsy signature; not good.
As my eyes wander further down I gag; I can feel the vomit rise up my throat, and I struggle to maintain self-control. Jesus Christ, in her right hand she holds her own heart. The son of a bitch butchered her, cut out her heart and placed it in her hand. Is this a sign of some sort? Christ, what does it mean? I stare open-mouthed for several minutes. Breathe, Downey, breathe.
Susan the FME walks over and I can see the heavy strain in her eyes. I don’t know how she’s coping; Christ it’s horrific.
‘Her name is Sara Mason, aged thirty-two, time of death approximately twelve hours, perhaps slightly less. She’s been raped several times, although there is no evidence of semen. Her hands and legs have been bound by a rope, again no evidence found. She has several fractures to the skull, probably caused by a blunt instrument, such as the handle of a gun, and over her entire body she has one hundred and four stab wounds.’
‘Holy God, he did a real number on her.’ I’m still struggling to breathe.
She pushes me to the far side of the room, out of earshot of most people.
‘Downey, she has had her tongue cut out, we can’t find it.’ I see apprehension on her face and hear it in her voice.
I can feel the cold hand of fear grip my spine and slowly twist and tighten it.
I nod. ‘What else?’
She stares at me. ‘She has the same sized bruise marks on the hyoid bone – it’s cleanly snapped.’
‘Jesus, it can’t be right – maybe he has roughly the same size hands as Tim Fash?’ I can’t take it in, I don’t want to; not even for a second do I want to think what’s running through her mind.
‘Look Downey, I’m no detective nor am I a profiler, but the scene suggests, with the little evidence that we have, that your killer is still on the loose.’
I turn and run out of the house, and throw up, over and over again, until my stomach is aching, empty, the taste of acid filling my mouth and nose. It can’t be true. If what she says is right, then had we killed an innocent man?
I stay outside for about ten minutes, catching my breath and trying to clear my mind. I have to go back in, I know it; I don’t want to, but I force myself.
I start again, this time looking for clues and dismissing everything else but the crime scene from my mind. The lounge, kitchen, and bathroom are clean. The dining room is also spotless. No dishes are in the kitchen and the kettle is empty. This proves to me that our killer struck when she was asleep. She was either naked in bed or he stripped off her clothes and took them with him. The only window and room that had been touched was the back bedroom. This meant that the whole incident took place there. He must have watched her for days, observing her behaviour. As this house has a small upstairs, how did he know she slept in the back downstairs room? The only explanation could be if he had been observing her habits. This was no quick robbery, or simply a rape. Sara Mason was brutally murdered in the sanctuary of her own home. The killer knew the easy access route; there was even a large hedge outside which would have shielded his movements. He would have known that she kept her window open, and that’s what he decided to use.
The heart – I think this is a message, but is it for me? Look what I’ve done; I’ve literally ripped out her heart. Is yours ripping now, too? I can’t ignore what Susan said about the matching bruises on the hyoid bone and it being cleanly snapped, and also the missing tongue. She’s right; I have a really bad feeling that our killer is still out there, and that we had in fact killed an innocent man. Tim Fash may have done drugs and had people killed, like Junior; he isn’t the sort that you lose sleep over killing, but this time I was led to him, step by step, death by death. And I’m going to find out why.
Tick, tick, tick.
CHAPTER 33
I reported back to headquarters. Grimes has left and is out for an area meeting, so I type up my report and leave it on his desk, with copies for all those concerned. Then I walk to the victim’s room, as I’ve named it, and start a new board. I add the details for Sara Mason and stand back. That now makes eight. Eight faces staring at me; all mutilated and attacked with such venom, hatred and also such infinite skill. I think that’s what frightened me the most.
As I leave, I pick up the notebook containing the latest letter from my nemesis, and stick it in my pocket.
Dinner is already on the go by the time I get home. I can smell roast beef, herbed potatoes and a medley of vegetables singing in the pot. She takes one look at my face and rushes over.
‘What the hell is the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ she says.
‘Something like that,’ I reply.
‘Is it Mack?’
I shake my head. ‘Nope.’
She grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me roughly.
‘Downey, you’re scaring me, what is it?’
I stare into those warm eyes, and feel my knees begin to buckle.
‘It’s him – he’s killed again.’
She helps me into a chair at the table, darts for the whisky, fills the glass to the brim and shoves it in my hand.
‘Drink.’
For once I do as I’m told. I down the lot.
‘Now start at the beginning,’ she says.
I tell her everything; my doubts about the profile not being right, about Tim Fash making a simple error, the letter from my nemesis, and lastly the horrific details of Sara Mason’s death. All the while I tremble; I can’t stop it, and I keep seeing Sara Mason’s heart in her hand.
Connie turns off the stove and pours us both a drink; this time the whisky glass isn’t so full.
She slams her glass down when she’s finished. ‘Why, though, have we been led to Tim Fash? I don’t understand.’ Her forehead creases and I can almost see her brain cells change up to a
higher gear.
‘Neither do I – yet.’ Damn it, I’m bone weary; I feel completely punch-drunk with the exhaustion of the day.
‘But he ran, as soon as he saw you and Mack he ran, and he shot at you. He killed innocent people who were in his way and nearly blew away your partner.’ I can see the confusion in her eyes.
‘We were led to Tim Fash for a reason, and I need to figure out exactly why.’
‘Let me see the note,’ she asks. I lay it out on the table.
To 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 murder detective inspectors, and solved this heinous crime. For that, and that alone – I congratulate you.
Your nemesis.
‘He’s apparently thanking you for killing Tim Fash.’
‘But why?’ I ask.
‘That’s what we have to figure out; I’ll fax this to Marion now.’
She takes the paper, rips it out of the notepad, slides it into the fax machine, and punches in the numbers. It hums as it sends it through. She brings it back and lays it on the table.
‘Let’s have a go ourselves,’ I say, trying to clear the fog from my brain.
I am the enemy of God. ‘That could be the Devil or Satan,’ she says.
I am the first month of the year, every year until the end of time. ‘It’s too simple – January.’
This is exactly what I am, the supreme male ruler. ‘Jesus, it could be anything, an old king or the Prime Minister,’ I say.
‘No, he’s the supreme male ruler. The Prime Minister could be a woman, so it can’t be that.’ I feel she’s a little insulted at my lack of intellect, by the stare I receive.
I give her one of my lame stares back. ‘But we have a male prime minister.’
‘Yes, at the moment, but I’m thinking more laterally here; go with me.’
‘How about God?’ I reply. She glares at me, impatience flickering across her eyes.
‘And who says God isn’t a woman?’
‘Everyone knows it’s a man.’ I’m getting exasperated now.
‘Have you seen him personally?’ she asks.
‘Well, no.’
‘Then I would suggest you stop being presumptuous.’ Her nostrils flare. I note the warning sign; whether or not I’ll heed it is another matter.
‘What’s a male ruler then?’ I ask.
‘An emperor.’ She grins.
‘So we’ve got the Devil, or Satan, January and an Emperor.’
She nods, scribbling them furiously on her pad.
‘Still doesn’t make any sense.’
I rub my eyes; I’m tired, bone weary, physically and emotionally drained from every pore. All I want to do is lie down in a darkened room and close my eyes, and sleep like never before.
She runs a hand through my hair, her impatience receding. ‘You’re tired, why not have an early night? We’ll probably have to wait until Marion can solve the rest anyway.’
‘What if she can’t? I don’t want the damn suits back.’ I can just picture Reeves smirking in his specific slimy way.
‘If Marion can’t solve them – no one can. Go on, go to bed.’
I get up, lean over, and drop a kiss on the top of her head; I don’t have the energy for anything else.
The haven of my bedroom – I think again of Sara Mason, had she been fast asleep when the psychotic killer had burst in? Had she known what was going to happen? Did she scream for mercy?
I throw my clothes in a heap on the floor and slide into bed. Although I’m exhausted, my mind keeps turning over – why Tim Fash? Why didn’t our killer just murder and torture him, surely he would have got more pleasure from that, than from Mack putting a bullet in him?
Questions. Over and over they tumbled until I finally fall into a fitful sleep; I don’t even stir when Connie slips in beside me.
The phone rings at 6:30a.m.; I don’t want to pick it up and I don’t want to hear of any more deaths. Connie leans over me and snatches up the receiver instead.
‘Connie speaking. Oh, hi Marion. Yes if you could fax it all through that would be great; listen, what did you do? Stay up all night? You did – hell, I owe you one.’ Connie slams the phone down in excitement.
‘She’s faxing the rest of the answers through, get up old man.’ I groan.
As she leaps out of bed, I pinch her bum on the way past.
‘You know that’s beginning to get like a fetish.’ She seems a little put out.
‘I know.’ So I smile and pinch it again.
Connie flicks on the coffee percolator and we both huddle over the fax machine; it seems like a damn eternity.
‘Come on Marion,’ she snipes; I know she’s as anxious as me.
The phone rings and the fax machine goes into automatic mode; we both stare as the paper seeps through inch by inch. As soon as the bleep sounds, I rip it out of the machine.
‘Grab a couple of mugs of coffee, will you?’ I can see she’s pissed off that I got the fax first.
I place it on the table as Connie races back with the coffee, spilling some on the table, the brown liquid oozing. We both ignore it.
1. I am the first month of the year, every year until the end of time. JANUARY.
2. I did as I wanted, and deserved, I commanded as only the supreme ruler can. UKASE – A command issued by the supreme ruler.
3. I am the enemy of God. THE DEVIL or SATAN.
4. These supposed futile objects will spare them of my powers – I don’t think so. I think this could possibly be a TALISMAN of some sort.
5. Ah, now this is what I deserve and shall have, as you can never punish me – I am the punisher. IMPUNITY – one who has the freedom of punishment.
6. Two together you and I will battle the good fight, I will win of course. COMBATANT – one who participates in a fight, or battle.
7. This is exactly what I am, the supreme male ruler. EMPEROR.
We both read and scribble at the same time.
‘You think she’s right?’ I ask.
‘She usually is, that’s why she’s the top in her field.’ Well, she’s a lot faster than the cryptanalysts at GCHQ.
JANUARY
UKASE
DEVIL or SATAN
A TALISMAN
IMPUNITY
COMBATANT
EMPEROR
I have it in about three seconds; I’m obviously getting better at this.
JANUARY
UKASE
DEVIL or SATAN
A TALISMAN
IMPUNITY
COMBATANT
EMPEROR
JUSTICE
So our killer had wanted justice, with Tim Fash – why? What had Tim Fash done to him? And why didn’t he just inflict his own usual method of murder? Why did he need the police?
Why does he need me?
CHAPTER 34
I drive like a maniac to headquarters, and run down the hall, sliding to a dead stop at Grimes’ door. I knock, don’t wait for an answer, just barge in.
He’s reading the report I typed up last night on Sara Mason; his face is grey, it reminds me of Mack’s after he’d been shot. He looks gaunt, the normally podgy face is strained; he has a look of disbelief in his eyes, and I know
exactly how he feels.
‘You’re sure about this?’ he asks.
I nod. ‘Unfortunately, yes.’
‘It’s not just some bloody copycat trying it on?’ I can tell he already knows the answer, but wants to hear something else.
‘No sir.’
I hand him Marion’s answers and the solution. He reads it about five times before he glances back up.
‘Justice for what?’
‘That’s what we’ve got to figure out.’
‘Why would a killer send you after Tim Fash? What’s the point?’
‘Perhaps to get the police to lock up an innocent man, maybe it’s part of his fantasy world.’
‘Fash was no soddin’ innocent,’ he rages.
‘No, but he was innocent of the brutal murders that we were chasing him for.’
He grudgingly agreed.
‘Start searching, pull in all the men you need, dig up every particle of information on Fash; that’s where the answer lies.’
‘I’m on it.’ I start to back out of the door.
‘If we don’t get another answer soon, the suits will need to be called back in; you know that, right?’
‘I know.’ I hate the very idea.
He hesitates. ‘You also know what it means for you?’
No, I don’t actually.
‘What?’
‘If Reeves comes back, he will be looking to put you behind a desk until pension day or back walking the streets, so you’d better come up with the goods – and fast.’
Hell, nothing like a bit of added pressure. I simply nod and shut the door behind me – hard.
Fuck Reeves, he’s not going to get this guy. I am.
I pull in five coppers and bellow instructions to each. Find me every known business partner that Fash had. I want to know every woman he’s ever been with, every house that he owned, which cars he had, where he was born, every relative. Every single detail about Fash’s life, from birth to death, now has to be gone over with a fine toothcomb.