by Daniel Cole
She scowled at him: ‘I can handle it.’
‘Oh, I don’t doubt that,’ laughed Chambers.
‘Then tell me.’
He smiled and then shook his head.
Dropping her cutlery onto the plate, Eve looked at him impatiently.
‘Look,’ started Chambers evenly, ‘I chose this life. I could’ve been a postman or something.’
‘Veronica’s husband is a postman …’
‘That’s nice.’
‘… He was mauled by a dog.’
‘Oh.’
‘And now he can’t pee standing up. Can you still pee standing up?’ she asked him rather loudly, several other diners staring in their direction. ‘… Huh?’
‘… Yes,’ Chambers answered in a whisper. ‘I can still pee standing up.’
‘Then how about you get over yourself, tough guy?’
He laughed, wondering why he’d even bothered putting up a fight at all. ‘All I meant is that I chose to invite all this darkness and cruelty and hatred—’
‘Jumbees,’ she interjected, her Caribbean superstitions actually summing it up quite succinctly.
‘Yeah, demons,’ he nodded. ‘I spend my time in the company of demons, and I can’t risk bringing even one of them back home to you.’
Eve’s expression didn’t even flicker. Chambers knew he was defeated.
He huffed: ‘OK …’
‘… So, I stopped by the library on my way back and found this …’ Chambers had been talking for over eight minutes when he produced the crumpled photocopy from his pocket: the frozen man rendered in weathered bronze. ‘The Thinker by Auguste Rodin,’ he announced. ‘Meaning that at both crime scenes, the bodies were positioned to resemble famous sculptures.’
‘But,’ started Eve, swallowing her mouthful, ‘neither of the bodies today had puncture marks in their necks.’
‘True,’ conceded Chambers. ‘Or any trace of the paralytic drug used in the first murder. But the mother’s arms were already covered in track marks and all signs are pointing towards a heroin overdose.’
‘But what about the boy? He was hit on the head.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe something went wrong,’ suggested Chambers. ‘Maybe he fought back. Either way, the killer covered up the damage he’d done with make-up, made them both look perfect again. Twisted, right?’ he smiled, the thrill of sharing a demon’s company again causing him to forget himself. When Eve looked at him in concern, he cleared his throat and sat up. ‘I’m taking it to the chief tomorrow.’
‘Who you got backing you up?’ Eve asked him.
‘Huh?’
‘You know, who’s looking out for you? Who you working with on this?’
‘A new guy … A constable.’ Her face dropped. ‘He’s good,’ Chambers assured her. ‘You’d like him.’
‘Hmmm,’ she replied, playing with her braided hair as she finished the last morsels of her meal.
‘What’s wrong?’
Pushing her plate away from her, Eve met his eye: ‘Know what every path leads to if you follow it long enough?’
Chambers looked blank.
‘It leads to what you’re looking for.’
‘O-K?’
‘And you’re looking for a demon in human form. You already knew that he was intelligent. Now you know he can also be violent. You sit there and smile like it’s a game, but it’s not. It’s your life, and today it became entwined with his – with a serial killer’s.’
Reaching across the table, Chambers took her hand. ‘One: I won’t take any risks, I swear to you. And two: technically, he’s not even a serial killer. And we’re going to catch him long before anyone starts throwing terms like that around.’
‘I’m hunting a serial killer!’ shouted Winter, slopping half his pint over the floor.
‘What?!’ the woman yelled over the music.
‘I’m … hunting … a … serial killer!’ he nodded excitedly, making a stabbing motion with his arm.
‘What?!’
‘Serial killer!’
She heard him that time and promptly excused herself to visit the bathroom.
‘Toilets are that way!’ he advised helpfully, pointing in the opposite direction as she made her way up the stairs and then out through the exit. ‘… Yeah, she’s not coming back.’
Undeterred, having been ‘throwing down’ some of the best ‘shapes’ of his life, Winter headed back out onto the dance floor as the synthesiser intro to ‘When Will I be Famous?’ blasted through the speakers. Flawlessly substituting the word ‘famous’ for ‘hunting a serial killer’ every time the chorus came round, he cleared himself a sizeable space from the rest of the crowd, feeling invincible, feeling like the luckiest man alive – a hero among mere mortals and utterly immune to the effects of alcohol.
‘That’s a … lot of vomit,’ sighed the cleaner at the Cyber Rooms on being faced with the career-best challenge that Winter had set for him. ‘… I hate my life.’
At 8.55 a.m. the next morning, Chambers cursed on seeing the state of his visitor. Partially dressed with his hair frizzed forward over his eyes and a large dark stain still spreading across his uniform, Winter held an empty mug in his hand, having fallen asleep in a chair.
‘Hey!’ barked Chambers, snapping his fingers next to the sleeping man’s ear. ‘Winter! … Winter!’
He awoke with a start and then winced in pain, smacking himself in the temple when he raised his hands to his head: ‘Ahhhh. What?’
‘Meeting’s in five minutes.’
Exhaling deeply, he peered down at himself: ‘You made me spill my coffee.’
‘Stand up!’
Rising unsteadily to his feet, he allowed Chambers to tuck him in and tidy him up a little.
‘Are you drunk?’ Chambers asked him, doing up his top button.
‘Sick … Food poisoning.’
‘Oh,’ he said, softening a little. ‘What did you have?’
‘Eleven beers,’ belched Winter.
Chambers regarded him, thoroughly unimpressed: ‘Know what? Forget it. You’re useless to me.’
‘Hey!’ Winter shouted after him as he walked away. ‘Hey! Wait up!’
‘Go home!’ Chambers called back. ‘You’re off the case.’
‘I was under the impression Constable Winter would be joining us,’ said Hamm, making no effort to disguise his displeasure at Chambers scheduling the meeting. He closed the door to his office.
‘He couldn’t—’
There was an urgent knock at the window.
‘Ah. He made it. Better luck next time,’ Hamm told him, waving Winter in.
Face still wet, hair now at least pointing in the right direction, the young constable appeared almost presentable as he took a seat.
‘OK. I’ve got a lot on today. What’s all this about?’ Hamm asked them, the phone on his desk ringing the moment he’d said it. ‘Hang on.’
‘I told you to go home,’ hissed Chambers while his DCI was otherwise engaged.
‘I’m a part of this too,’ Winter whispered back.
‘Part of nothing if we can’t sell this to Hamm.’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘Fine. Remember, make him believe you hate me.’
‘Shouldn’t be too hard,’ muttered Winter just as Hamm finished his call.
‘Right then,’ he said, finally giving them his attention. ‘What have you got?’
The two of them presented their case faultlessly, Chambers coming across as confident in his theory, proactive in his course of action. And, as planned, Winter had contradicted him at every opportunity, using their apparent animosity to gain favour with Hamm while feeding him exactly what they needed him to hear. As the detective chief inspector compared crime-scene photographs from the previous day to pictures of the famous sculpture, Chambers and Winter shared a smile, knowing that it couldn’t have gone any better.
Eventually, Hamm looked back up at them. ‘What an utter load of steaming shit,’
he concluded, tossing the photos at them.
‘Boss, I—’
‘Shut it!’ he snapped, cutting Chambers off. ‘You’ve been talking bollocks at me for the last fifteen minutes. It’s your turn to listen now. You’ve come in here with two murder scenes miles apart, three different M.O.s, no link between the snowman in the park and either of the junkies, and only your word that he was positioned anything like this sculpture when you found him. It’s a statue of a bloke sat on his arse! I’m sat on my arse right now – think I look like it too?’
‘To be fair, the physique is a little different to yours,’ Winter interjected, evidently still a little tipsy. ‘You’re a bit softer around the … everything.’
Hamm glared at him.
‘Probably stop talking now,’ whispered Chambers.
‘Yep.’
‘Is there a connection between these two statues, at least?’ Hamm asked them. ‘Who made the sitting guy?’
‘Rodin,’ answered Chambers. ‘He’s French.’
‘Never heard of him. And the Jesus and Mary one?’
‘Michelangelo.’
‘You’ve probably heard of him,’ said Winter.
Hamm held up his hands in exasperation. ‘I know what this is about, by the way,’ he told Chambers, pointing an accusing finger across the desk at him. ‘Your lot. Always out to prove something, aren’t you? The very last thing we need at the moment is some token hire spouting his half-baked ideas, getting the press all riled up over nothing.’
Appalled, Winter opened his mouth to say something but noticed Chambers give him a subtle shake of the head.
‘My orders,’ Hamm continued, ‘investigate these as two completely separate incidents. One more word about statues or serial killers and I’ll have you reassigned. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, sir,’ replied Chambers, taking his cue to get up.
‘Sir,’ said Winter, also getting to his feet. ‘I’d like to request to stay on and work these two cases under DS Chambers. I was the first unit on scene at both and feel it could be an invaluable learning opportunity.’
Hamm looked bored: ‘… I’ll speak with your chief.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
With that, the two men promptly showed themselves out and moved a safe distance from the door.
‘I take it I’m to disregard every word that came out of his mouth?’ asked Winter.
Chambers nodded.
‘So, where to?’
‘The Forensics lab …’ Chambers told him decisively.
Performance over, Winter was starting to look as though he might die again.
‘… Via the coffee machine,’ he added.
‘Oh, thank God.’
CHAPTER 6
‘Think next time you come down to see me, you could bring something straightforward?’ asked Dr Sykes as she stood over the body of Alphonse Cotillard, the teenager found in his mother’s arms. ‘For example: a guy without a head. And then you’ll say “what was the cause of death, doc?”, to which I’ll reply: “Well … he’s got no head, so there’s that.”’
She seemed a little stressed.
After taking another hit of her coffee, she asked: ‘How’s the sculpture angle panning out?’
‘Dead in the water,’ replied Chambers, figuring the less people who knew they were still pursuing it, the better.
‘How very apt,’ nodded Sykes, without elaborating. ‘So, do either of you want to hazard a guess at cause of death? I’ll give you a clue: it begins with a B.’
Chambers and Winter shared a look. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, and in the absence of any make-up, the indent to the young man’s skull was obvious, the deep wound running through the middle glued together with precision.
‘Blunt force trauma,’ shrugged Chambers.
The doctor turned to Winter.
‘Blunt force trauma,’ he agreed.
Sykes shook her head manically: ‘Bloody drowning!’
‘On his sofa?’ asked Winter.
‘No doubt as a result of the head trauma, but the volume of liquid in his lungs suggests he was still alive after being struck with something solid and round, six to eight inches in diameter. I also found numerous bruises on his arms and neck indicative of a struggle. But what I still haven’t found is a puncture wound anywhere on the body.’
The three of them stared down at the cadaver in silence.
‘… What sort of liquid?’ asked Chambers.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘In his lungs.’
‘Just boring old water, I’m afraid.’
‘Was it chlorinated?’
Winter glanced across the table at Chambers, realising where he was heading with this.
‘No. Why?’ asked Sykes.
‘How about on his skin?’ Winter asked urgently, shooting Chambers a significant look.
‘I can certainly take a sample and—’
‘No need,’ Winter told her, leaning over to sniff the corpse’s arm.
‘Umm. Excuse me. What do you think you’re doing?’ Sykes asked in alarm.
‘That’s revolting,’ remarked Chambers, pulling a face.
‘Yeah,’ gagged Winter. ‘Regret it already.’ Standing back up, he took a deep breath, needing a moment. He looked to Chambers and nodded.
‘Chlorine on his skin, fresh water in his lungs,’ the experienced detective pondered aloud.
‘… The showers at the swimming club?’ suggested Winter.
‘What swimming club?’ asked Sykes, feeling rather left out of the conversation.
‘Let’s go,’ said Chambers.
Without another word, the two detectives showed themselves out, leaving the doctor to her windowless existence and entourage of dead bodies.
‘OK … Bye, bye then!’ she called after them, receiving only the slam of a door in response.
‘What is it with old men and changing rooms?’ asked Winter, looking traumatised. ‘I mean, I go swimming from time to time. And yeah, at some point the trunks need to come off, but—’
‘But you wrap a towel around you!’ Chambers concurred, clearly feeling as strongly as Winter when it came to the subject.
‘Or do that thing where you hold the towel in your teeth so it hangs down like some sort of crotch curtain.’ Chambers’ lack of agreement suggested he might have shared a little too much. ‘Either way, what you don’t do is stand there straightening up your tie with your bits swinging about in the wind.’
Chambers nodded in agreement as they stepped into the shower block. ‘Our murder scene … Maybe,’ he announced.
‘Perfect place to wash away the blood.’
‘Perfect place to sneak up on someone,’ countered Chambers, doubting that the killer’s intention had been to damage his ‘artwork’.
‘Cracked tile behind you,’ Winter pointed out.
‘Could you see if they’ve got a Phillips head screwdriver handy?’
He looked to Chambers inquisitively, who gestured to the three metal drain covers set into the floor. ‘Sure.’
He had only been out of the room twenty seconds before Chambers heard him calling his name. Hurrying to the top of the stairs that descended to the pool area, he looked down at Winter – a gloved hand holding one of the weights used in underwater exercises high above his head. Bar the small handle, it was completely round and clearly quite heavy.
‘Our murder weapon?! … Maybe!’ he called up triumphantly, be-
fore noticing the concerned faces of the people taking lessons. Lower-ing the weight, he gave them an awkward wave: ‘Don’t mind me.’
Much to the displeasure of the leisure centre manager and horde of old men keen to drop their pants, Chambers and Winter had closed off the shower room, confidence growing that they had found where the teenager’s murder had taken place.
Accessing the drainage system, however, had taken more than the proposed screwdriver, the caretaker having to shut off the water supply in order to remove the plastic filtrat
ion system concealed beneath the metal grate. The first two drains had taken over half an hour to disassemble and had produced little more than a twenty-pence piece, a lost locker key and, inexplicably, a soggy Ritz video rental card.
But as the final cover was removed, Chambers edged forward in anticipation, abandoning his spot beside the broken wall tile.
Several grunts and groans later, the caretaker pulled the plastic box from the floor, carefully unscrewing it to inspect the contents within. He looked surprised: ‘Is that …?’
‘A needle,’ Chambers finished on his behalf.
‘And broken glass,’ Winter added excitedly. ‘Don’t move a muscle,’ he told the man, kneeling beside him with an evidence bag at the ready. A smile broke across his face: ‘We’ve got blood.’
Chambers nodded. Sure enough, a handful of the shards were speckled with crimson.
‘Bag it,’ he instructed Winter. ‘I’ll get someone over to pick it up.’
‘Why? Where are we going?’
‘To pay Mr Sleepe another visit. See if we can’t persuade him to part with some fingerprints and a sample of his blood.’
At 3.15 p.m. Chambers and Winter were sitting in the pie and mash shop on Tower Bridge Road, the day’s excitement combined with their frequent trips to and from New Scotland Yard causing them to forget about lunch entirely. By pure coincidence, the establishment’s floor-to-ceiling tiles were fittingly reminiscent of their shower-room discovery.
They had been eating in silence for over five minutes when Winter felt he needed to get something off his chest:
‘I’m sorry about this morning.’
Chambers took a moment to realise what he was referring to; so much had happened since then.
‘A friend’s birthday and the excitement of working an actual serial killer case got the better of me,’ he continued. ‘It won’t happen again. And I really do appreciate you letting me tag along.’
The protracted silence that followed started to feel a little uncomfortable while Chambers finished the last of his jellied eels. He dabbed his mouth with a serviette and then looked across at Winter.
‘You did OK today,’ he said rather anticlimactically, getting up from the table. ‘Got a phone I can use?’ he asked the woman behind the counter, flashing his ID.