Degrees of Darkness

by Tony J. Forder

  By the time Nicky arrived, Frank had emptied the fridge of beer. He’d made a half-hearted attempt to eat, but food was no solace.

  ‘You look like shit,’ Nicky said as he came through the door.

  ‘Thanks for those few kind words.’

  ‘Well, you do. Got a drink?’

  ‘All out of booze, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No wonder you look so rough.’ Nicky shook his head as he walked along the hallway. ‘Frank, you need to keep a clear head. If you want in on this investigation, then you’re going to need all your wits about you. We both know all about Foster, and he’s nothing if not sneaky and determined. I’ve had to prise Capel away from me tonight with a fucking crowbar. By tomorrow he’ll have to be surgically removed. Foster’s told him to stick to me like shit on a blanket. He knows how far back you and I go. He’s desperate to keep you out of this.’

  ‘Can’t you have a word with Warren? Give him the full SP on Foster?’

  Nicky pursed his lips. ‘To tell the truth, I don’t how much I can trust him. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t go running to Foster, volunteering the information. But if it all goes tits up, I think he’d drop me right in it. I have a feeling he and Foster are like this.’ He crossed the middle and forefinger of his right hand.

  Frank gave a weary nod of resignation. ‘You can’t blame him, I suppose. You can’t expect him to put his career at risk the way you are. I don’t mean anything to him.’

  ‘I’m not doing this just for you, mate. I’m doing it because of Janet and Gary as well. I’m also doing it because I think working with you will get us to Laura quicker than working with anyone else.’

  They moved into the kitchen, where Frank made a pot of coffee. The two men sat at the dining table, smoke coiling from one of Nicky’s occasional cigars. It clung to the ceiling like a low-lying mist. At times like this, Frank wished he’d never given up smoking. Chewing gum, as he was now, just didn’t have the same soothing effect.

  ‘Have you seen any of the news items?’ Nicky asked.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How d’you think we came out?’

  ‘Okay. There’ll be the usual few who will disapprove of any stance made by the police, and some of the rags will make you all look like PC Plods. Most won’t think about it one way or another.’

  Stifling a yawn behind his hand, Nicky gave quick nod.

  Frank stared hard at his friend, whose eyes were already ringed with bruises of neglect that were as familiar to Frank as his own heartbeat. Major cases had a way of leeching away your very essence.

  ‘Do you have someone to go home to these days?’ he asked.

  Nicky’s reputation as a womaniser was well known throughout the Met. He’d dated women from dozens of different stations in various areas, and his sharp looks and style were almost legendary. Nicky’s family had come to England from Cyprus when he was just two years old. His dark good looks were complemented by a build that made him stand out in a crowd. He liked to look good, so he wore the best clothes he could afford. His laconic nature and overwhelming presence attracted women to him in numbers.

  Nicky was shaking his head firmly. ‘You know what it’s like, old son. Believe me, there are times when I’d like nothing more than to come home to a family, meal on the table, chilled wine in a glass. But the job is a killer of relationships. I don’t have to tell you that.’

  ‘Maybe. But remember, Janet left me after I’d quit.’

  ‘Sure, but the damage had been done by then. Not many women want a man who often shares her bed for just a few hours a night, who spends most weekends either working or thinking about work, who hasn’t got time for her needs, who is hardly aware of her presence most of the time.’

  Frank drank his coffee black and strong. Its bitterness drilled into him. ‘We’re fucking clichés. Maybe we should have stayed with the Woodentops, out on the beat. Sure, they do shift hours, but they’re pretty regular. Wives tend to know when their husbands will be home. Anything above that, like CID, fraud, vice, and you become the invisible man.’

  They fell silent for a while. Each had his own memories to call upon, his own thoughts and aspirations to wrestle with. Eventually, Frank drained his cup and asked how things were progressing.

  Nicky rubbed his eyes, shook his head. ‘This fucker is slippery, Frank. If we catch him, though, we’ll nail him on the DNA taken from his semen. There was a trail of blood leading from the main bedroom, into the other two, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. None of it his, so it would seem. Expecting results from the lab later today. No blood outside, so he must have changed in the kitchen. But no good footprints, I’m sorry to say. Not one clear, recognisable mark. By the time he came down to the kitchen the blood had just about been wiped clean.’

  ‘No hairs?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Are forensics certain?’

  ‘’Fraid so. The fresh hairs they found belonged there, while others had been lying around too long for them to be our man’s. He either wears something over his entire head, or he’s bald. All we really have to work with is the blood type we got from the semen, and his experience with locks.’

  ‘What about the MO cross-check?’

  ‘Again, nothing. If he’s an old hand, then he’s changed his MO completely. You know as well as I do how unlikely that is. The only thing we can be reasonably certain of is that he’s not going to hand himself to us on a plate.’

  Frank clasped his hands together and raised them above his head, trying to stretch some life into his body. Nicky was right: he had gone to shit, in just a couple of days.

  Twilight cast gloom around the kitchen. Shadows pressed against the two men. Nicky pushed his cup to one side, cleared his throat and said, ‘His psychological profile is interesting. There’s a consensus of opinion, too.’

  Frank blinked. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He’s either a sociopath or a psychopath, not psychotic. There’s no sense of urgency or panic in what he does, as there would be with a psychotic. He’s very deliberate. The profile says he’s white and probably in his early or mid-thirties. He will be holding down a reasonable job, or possibly be self-employed. He’s a creature of habit: the time of each incident, method of entry, killing the pet even though it doesn’t seem necessary to what he does after. There’s the usual spiel about him being badly treated as a kid. They think he takes the girls in order to replace someone in his life. But not for sex. Sex isn’t what drives him. Although he masturbates over the mothers, he doesn’t appear to have sex with them, or any of the other females he’s killed. Could be he’s looking to either replace a daughter, or take one he’s never been able to have.’

  Frank sucked in air. Whoever had put the profile together was good, but they needed more. He closed his eyes. Saw a vague outline standing over Janet, spattering his semen over her face.

  ‘Hmm. I think he likes to watch.’

  Nicky raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  ‘He doesn’t have sex,’ Frank went on, ‘but I think he gets his kicks by watching. I think he does his masturbating while they’re alive, not post-mortem as I thought previously. The opportunity for rape is obvious, but instead he gets them to perform, to screw, or just touching each other, maybe. Before or after death he has the opportunity of entering the woman, but he resists. And I don’t believe that jerking off over a dead woman is enough for him.’

  ‘But not all of the women were vaginally penetrated.’

  Frank opened his eyes. ‘I’m not saying it’s part of the ritual. I just think that on these occasions the need has come upon him. Not necessarily the need to see them screwing, but the need to demonstrate his power over them, his control of the situation. It’s not a part of his psychological signature. Something triggers this in him. Maybe it’s the woman’s looks, or perhaps the attitude of the man. It could be a punishment for something said or done. And if he does force them to screw while he watches, is he a voyeur by nature? He must have built up to this point, so maybe he was
done for peeping in the early stages, or even flashing. Try to link that with the rest of what you have, Nicky. Stick it into the system and see what comes up.’

  ‘It’s worth a try. Could be right.’

  ‘We’ll see. Nicky, I need to get inside the house.’

  His friend regarded him in the gathering dark. ‘I know I promised you, mate, but it’s risky. The area’s still sealed off by forensics.’

  ‘No problem. You don’t even have to do it underhanded. Remember, as far as two of the victims are concerned, I’m the next of kin. Go to Foster. Tell him I want to sort through Gary’s things. I have a right to them.‘

  Nicky stubbed out his cigar and wafted the smoke away from his face. ‘You cover all the angles, don’t you? Did that just enter your mind, or did you have it all worked out?’

  Frank thought about it for a second or two, then shrugged. ‘I’ll be damned if I know. I suppose it was there in the back of my mind.’

  Nicky met his friend’s even gaze. ‘Are you sure you want to see it, Frank?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘Then I’ll arrange it first thing. I hope to have all the documentation for you as well within a day or two.’

  Frank nodded to himself. Nicky would be as good as his word. It was still early in the investigation, so there was nothing else to consider. The two men sat for a while talking about other, unconnected things. Neither touched on Frank’s loss. The only other thing Frank discovered that night was that gum tasted like shit if you drank coffee at the same time.

  Later, when he was alone and surrounded once more by familiar shadows, Frank sat in Gary’s room for more than an hour. He knew it was morbid, and really didn’t want to dwell on the boy’s memory just then. But for some reason the simple act of being in the room filled him with purpose. The four walls ought to have encompassed life for many years to come, yet that life had been snuffed out by a stranger. Sitting there on the bed, staring at all the things Gary had held so dear, Frank vowed to avenge his little boy.

  In every corner, lurking in every dark recess, the image of the killer began to form. He was unknown, yet already they had figured out so much about him. And while he had no recognisable features, his profile was taking shape. He was being assembled out of nothing, and Frank sensed they were working along the right lines. Time was their biggest enemy now. And time was as devoid of compassion as any killer.

  He went to sleep that night in Laura’s room, allowing her presence to slip around him, to enter his pores. He wasn’t afraid of it. Instead he found it comforting. He felt Laura by his side, enjoyed her warmth merging with his body heat, felt her heart beat in time with his own. They even wept together.

  In the early hours of the morning he awoke from a dream, tried to hold onto it, but it faded quickly, like a nervous laugh. He felt sure that Laura had been part of it, and that she was safe. Unharmed. For the remainder of that restless night he clung to the thought like a drowning man to a raft.

  10

  Nicky Loizou was as good as his word. By eight-thirty the next morning, Frank was stepping over the threshold of the home his wife had shared with Paul Clarke. The house was still bustling with activity, though the scene of crime investigation was gradually winding down. Media with nothing better to do continued to gather together across the street, waiting for a fresh announcement, some movement on the investigation. Though they had reluctantly agreed to a request from the chief superintendent that they keep clear of Frank’s home during this time of enormous strain, out here he was in their domain and up for grabs. As one they jostled forward, elbows digging, calling out to him, cameras whirring, microphones thrust forward on long boom poles. Frank didn’t so much as glance in their direction.

  Inside the house, a few remaining detectives and the forensics team worked relentlessly, all with but one thought: to find the all-important clue, the one that was going to break the investigation. As Frank stood in the hallway, aware that his mouth had become dry, someone called out his name. He looked up to see the ruddy features of Detective Sergeant Tom Whelan.

  It didn’t matter where he went or in whose company he was, Whelan always had an MP3 player clipped to the waistband of his trousers, and a pair of headphones either wrapped around his neck or placed over his ears. The first time Frank had met him he asked to have a listen. Whelan duly obliged. Expecting something soft and lyrical and typically Celtic, Frank couldn’t have been more surprised when he heard the thunderous crash of waves beating against a rocky shoreline. It was the only thing Whelan ever listened to and, as crazy as it seemed to others, it kept him relaxed and on top of his game.

  Frank shook the man’s enormous hand. Whelan, a large, brooding Dubliner, clasped him warmly. ‘Good to see you again, Frank. I only wish it were in better circumstances.’ His lilt was as pronounced as ever, though he hadn’t once returned to the Republic since moving across the water when he was fifteen.

  ‘Thanks, Tom.’ Frank nodded his appreciation. ‘Good to see you, too. It’s been a long time.’

  ‘You never did come back for that drink you promised us.’

  ‘No. Sorry. In the end, I just couldn’t face it. Too many memories, good and bad.’

  Whelan gave a gentle smile. ‘Ah, I understand. I’d be the same, I suppose. Not that I’m thinking of leaving, you understand. What the hell else is there for an ex-copper? Security work?’

  ‘You could try collecting debts.’

  Whelan nodded. ‘I hear your business is going okay.’

  ‘Up and down, Tom. Like everything else. Where did you hear that?’

  The man tapped a thick finger against the side of his nose. ‘I ask around and I keep my ears open. You might be out of sight, Frank Rogers, but you’ll never be out of this particular copper’s mind.’

  ‘That’s much appreciated, Tom.’ Frank peered up the stairway, angling his neck. ‘Look, I need to go into the bedrooms. Is that okay by you?’

  ‘Nicky told me to expect you. You want your family’s things.’

  ‘Not all, just a few items. To tell the truth, part of me just needs to see it. I want to get a feel of the scene.’

  ‘Your call, Frank. I don’t know as I would want any part of it in your place, but … well …’ He shrugged.

  ‘I know. Even I can’t think why I would want to see where it all happened.’

  Whelan accompanied him up the stairs. On the landing, where the corridor split both ways, he stopped and sighed heavily, shaking his head. ‘It’s a terrible thing, Frank. Bad enough what the bastard did, but when you know one of your own is involved … Ah, listen to me. Never could keep my big mouth closed.’

  ‘It’s okay, Tom. I don’t think it’s really got to me yet. Thankfully. I suppose the knowledge that Laura is still out there somewhere is keeping me on the edge. If she had been murdered too, well, I don’t think I’d be walking on this side of sanity right now.’

  The DS nodded, then inclined his head. ‘Foster said you were to collect a few things and then go. Said I was to stick to you like glue and make sure you did just that.’ The big man grinned. ‘So, you just take your time looking around on your own.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Whelan appeared wounded. ‘Of course. Foster’s a prick, and even if he weren’t I could never turn you away from this. The end room the way you’re facing is the one … the one Janet was found in. First one was your boy’s.’ He turned to glance back over his shoulder. ‘Laura’s is back there, past the bathroom.’

  ‘Thanks. I really do appreciate it. Give me a few minutes, Tom.’

  ‘Right.’ Whelan marched down the landing to the far bedroom. He leaned in and said something out of Frank’s earshot. He came back with two of the forensic team in tow, neither of whom Frank recognised. ‘I’ll stop anyone heading upstairs until you come back down,’ Whelan said. The balusters rattled at their descent.

  Frank drew in a deep breath. Let it go in one long sigh. He moved slowly. Past Gary’s room. Door closed. Past a picture
on the wall: a Japanese Samurai warrior waging war against a dragon in flight. One of Janet’s favourites.

  Mine, too. Didn’t even realise she’d taken it until now.

  The door to the main bedroom was standing wide open. Frank paused on the threshold, craning his neck to peer in. First impressions were always important. The post-mortem results were in, and from Nicky he had earlier learned that Paul Clarke’s carotid artery had been severed. If Frank hadn’t known, he would have been able to guess. It was impossible to ignore such a huge quantity of blood.

  His eyes strayed to the twin bedside cabinets. The one to the right held a lamp, a pair of wire-framed spectacles, a copy of Time Out magazine. Had to be Paul Clarke’s side of the bed. On the one to the left was a leather-bound book, next to a glass with a finger of orange juice left in it. Janet often took a drink to bed with her. Especially if she’s going to make love. The book looked like something from her Dickens collection. A thin film of scum floated on the surface of the juice.

  The arterial spray was on the right-hand side of the room. Clarke had managed to move – or perhaps he’d fallen off the bed. Either way, he hadn’t got very far. The spray cut a swathe across the far wall and the first two-thirds of the drawn curtains. Where it ended, there was a pool of blood on the thick pile carpet, congealed now to a black crust.

  Janet had died where she lay. Her blood was concentrated on the sheets and pillowcase, with just a few spatters on the headboard and wallpaper beyond.

  Did you fight him? Frank wanted to know, recalling his wife’s loathing of monsters in any shape or form. Or did you do what he wanted, hoping he would get his kicks and then leave you alone? Did you hope that if he got what he wanted from you, he wouldn’t go near the children? Frank looked for answers from the room and got nothing in return. Janet would have fought to her last breath to save the children, of that he was certain. Her life had been superficial in many ways, but she had worshipped Gary and Laura.

  He pulled a small notebook out of his hip pocket; old habits. He flipped over the cover and glanced down. According to the report submitted by Sebastian Reeves, Paul Clarke sustained sixty-four wounds. Janet had received fifteen fewer. The weapon was a breadknife, heavy seven-inch serrated blade, matching the Sabatier set downstairs in the kitchen. Frank put an asterisk by the side of that notation. He wrote: Breadknife? Does he always use victims’ own knives?